













O 'V , S 


'Ki 


^ 0 , I ■» <' ^ 0 X 0 , '-i 

« - ' ® i? f 

^ -f* 

^ jje. 2, ^ 

*' ^ V ® 

" V 0 O^ >■ - ''^'^ 


f,"^ A \ < V If 

c ^ ^ ^ ^ ^O 

" - c> o' . 

j ''TO' / / / y^K «w. y* 

,^*.o* v>^s'V'^'> ’ - 6 “?' \ 




<xV 

/ ■» 






A'^ , 

*. <?, --O’' 


» 







s A 





O 

V , '' ^ ^ A V 


.V <j^. 


^ o w/MW ^ 


.J> cO':'-*,^©, , 0 ' 

1 <^>;\\n'%. • 


V ' B i? A, A c ° ^ 

-? A <* 


\ 





If ^ ,J^ y 

'- ’ <G' ^ 0 f K A 

r\v . « ^ ^ aSS c ^ ^ C. ^ 

0° • ~^- ' 

''oo' 

(. ' %.U\x\.'A> ° ^^°-<' ' k'!^ a. ', 

%^'‘ •. s^o’" A . A-‘^**.'"''As.t'S‘'*'=«“'( 






'*' .0 N 0 ’ A'^' ^ ^ ^ 8 1 -V 

4 0^ S- ' ,4 ^ 



>> 

V 




, ’C'* ^ ^ ry ^ ^ 

^ C? x-Vyr 

^t/v^ "f . V c'S!!N' vV.^ y* Jf '{[}/. 




'’^ <>?s-^ ^ ’” -o’ 

* ’ ~ » ’’ 'S-®'' , . o '% * ■ "“ v> ■']:;jj’ "' ’ " ^ ' ' 


v< ^ 



% % 

. O. "/ 

0 c 


.‘T - 




f> \Y’ 


\ ^ V 

> (P\'lyr 



'^O o' 





»?%’* '0^ % X*- s-», *> *'»»» 







o 




.V 











/^ / 0 1r 


t.c 

BEECH BLUFF, 

A 


TALE OF THE SOUTH. 


BY FANNIE WARNER. 

u 



/' 

PHILADELPHIA : 
PETER F. CUNNINGHAM, 

216 SOUTH THIRD STREET. 
1870. 


• 


Entered accordiiifr to the Act of Congress, in the year 1870, 

By peter F. CUNNINGHAM, 

III the Office of the Clerk of the District Court of the 
Eastern District of Pennsylvania. 


CONTENTS 


CHAP. PAGE. 

I. The Eve of Depaetuee , . 5 

II. Eeteospection .... 17 

III. The Depaetuee ... 23 

lY. Beech Bluff .... 26 

Y. Magic Measuees ... 40 

YI. Chestnut Geovb ... 54 

YII. Sabbath in the Countey . , 67 

YIII. Lights and Shadows of the Sick 

Room .... 94 

IX. Stumbling Blocks . , . 123 

X. Change of Scene . . . 131 

XL Holidays .... 165 

XII. An Unwelcome Guest . . 191 

XIII. A False Position . , . 212 

XIY. Disappointed Hopes . . 229 

XY. OVEESHADOWED . . . 242 

XYI. Aftee the Funeeal . . 251 

XYII. Conclusion .... 254 


CONTENTS. 


AGNES. 

CHAP. 

I. Brother and Sister 
II. Separated 
' III. In Faith 
lY. Summoned 
Y. John’s Friend 
YI. A Christmas Jot 


PAGE. 

269 

272 

282 

286 

291 

296 


AFTEE MANY DAYS. 


CHAP. 



PAGE. 

I. Bread upon the Waters 

• 

• 

306 

II. Amy. 

• 

• 

810 

III. Walter. . 

• 

• 

315 

lY. It Shall Eeturn . 

• 

• 

327 


BEECH BLUFF. 


CHAPTER 1. 

THE EVE OF DEPARTURE. 

“And to-morrow you leave us for the sunny 
South ?” 

“ Yes I and I hope it may prove as sunny as it is 
represented. De Bow says ‘ a more lovely heaven 
does not smile on the classic land of Italy than on 
the favored inhabitants of Georgia.’ I fervently hope 
that those whom destiny throws me with will smile 
as graciously upon me as heaven does upon them.” 

“ I hope indeed that your lines will be cast in 
pleasant places, and that you will not have reason 
to regret your determination to adopt the vocation ot 
Governess. I must bid you good bye this evening, 
as a business engagement will prevent my seeing 
you at the cars in the morning ; but accept iny 


6 


BEECH BLUFF. 


warmest wishes for your happiness, and in your 
sympathy for those in bondage abroad do not for- 
get those at home, who would have been your will- 
ing slaves ; and remember one in particular who 
would have gladly remained your slave for life. 
Farewell !’' 

. The door closed hurridly. A quick step echoed 
along the gravelled walk as the young girl whom the 
speaker had addressed turned to the window, and 
hastily snatching the curtain aside strove to catch 
a last glimpse of that manly form. “ Farewell, 
farewell is a lonely sound,” was murmured in a low 
voice, and then as if to confirm the truth of the 
second line of the verse, she heaved a deep sigh. 
Turning to the piano, she commenced to gather up 
some pieces of music scattered over the instrument, 
when the door opened. and an elderly lady entered 
the apartment. 

“ Who was here a few moments ago, my dear ?” 

“ It was Mr. Howard, mother,” replied the young 
Lady. 

‘‘ Mr. Howard 1” echoed the mother in surprise, 
“he did not remain long. AVill he see you to the 
cars in the morning?” 

“He said not: a business engagement will pre- 
vent him from seeing me again, and even compelled 
him to take a hasty leave this evening.” “ I think” 
she continued in a tone of sadness, “ I feel rather 
glad than otherwise for I wish to devote every mo- 
ment to you and I don’t care to be obliged to talk to 
strangers.” 


THE EVE OF DEPARTURE. 


7 


“ You certainly do not consider Mr. Howard, a 
stranger, Edith ?” 

“ Not in the sense you mean dear mother ; but 
he is not one of the family, and” — she hesitated. 

“ And what my child ?” 

Edith colored and turned away as if to avoid her 
mother’s searching glance, then replied in a tone of 
impatience, as if the subject were unpleasant. 
“ Well, I do not wish any one to accompany me to the 
cars but those I love best — yourself dear mother, and 
George and Grade.” 

There was a pause, Edith continued to arrange 
the pieces of music and place them carefully in the 
music portfolio at her side. Her mother crossed the 
room, and seated herself on the sofa near an open 
window. It was a lovely September evening, and 
the garden was silvered over with the pale moon- 
light ; she looked out upon the quiet scene but not 
with the same calm happy light in her eye with 
which she usually viewed it. Tears dimmed her 
vision, and sadness weighed heavily at her heart, as 
she thought of the separation on the coming mor- 
row. The last piece of music was in its place; 
taking the portfolio in her hand, Edith turned to 
leave the room, when her steps were arrested by her 
mothers voice desiring her to remain. 

“ I wish to have some conversation with you this 
evening, my daughter ; this will be the last oppor- 
tunity I shall have of seeing you alone. To-mor- 
row you leave home to be absent two long years; 
before you go, will you not make a confidante of 


8 


13i:ech bluff. 


youi' mother? Tell me, why you cannot accept 
Charles Howard’s offer of marriage ; did he renew 
his proposal this evening?” 

“He did not, mother; he merely alluded to the 
subject and was gone before I could reply.” 

“ And, had he given you an opportunity, what 
would your reply have been ?” 

“ The same as heretofore ; I can never be Charles 
Howard’s wife.” ' 

“It is very strange, Edith ! I know of no ob- 
jection to him; he seems in every way worthy, and 
I am convinced that you take more than an ordinary 
degree of interest in him; — then Avhy is it, pray, 
that you are so decided in your rejection of his 
suite?” 

Tears filled Edith’s eyes. .“I will not tiy to 
conceal from you, dear mother, that I do entertain 
for him more than a sentiment of friendship, but — 
I have no confidence in his steadfastness. I cer- 
tainly believe that he loves me now, but I doubt if 
his fickle nature will stand the test of a two years 
absence.” 

“ But why put him to that test, my child ?” 

“ It’s true, I am not actually obliged to leave 
home, but you know there’s a ‘divinity shapes our 
ends,’ and believing my vocation to be that of gov- 
erness, 1 have made it the subject of earnest prayer, 
the result of which has been the acceptance of the 
position I am going so far from home to fill ; but 
only with your consent dear mother ; without it I 


THE EVE OF DEPARTURE. 


9 


would not leave you. Even if I were engaged to 
Charles. I should postpone our marriage for at least 
two years, doubting as I have reason to do, the 
genuineness of his love.” 

“But, why are you so skeptical ? you have never 
told me, child.” 

“ Why mother, have you forgotten poor May 
Webb ? Whenever I find my heart beating faster 
and faster at Charles’ approach, I am sure to see 
her dear sad face rise up in judgment against him; 
then I could loath myself for loving one who could 
so deliberately win that young heart, only to cast 
it aside as a worthless bauble. I would fear to 
trust my happiness in such hands; I repeat, I have 
no confidence in his steadfastness^ and I would rather 
remain all my life, poor Edith Stanford the Gover- 
ness, than be the neglected wife of the rich Charles 
Howard.” 

“ And I would have you remain as you are my 
daughter, in preference to being the neglected wife 
of the greatest in the land ; but we often err in our 
estimate of another’s character, and perhaps you 
do Mr. Howard injustice. I have some knowledge 
of the circumstance you allude to, but it occurred 
long ago — when he was scarcely twenty ; I know he 
has repented that youthful indiscretion and is very 
different now — he appears so perfectly upright and 
honorable, so thoroughly manly, and, to me, trust- 
worthy. I sometimes think my child, that it is his 
religion you object to — you would rather your hus- 
band were a- Catholic.” 


10 


BEECH BLUFF. 


“ He has no religion mother ; he has often told 
me that it was all the same to him, Catholic, Pres- 
byterian or Methodist ; he would be any thing I 
desired. He is an Indifferent ; without a single vice 
that I am aware of, he has many grevious faults — 
and is totally destitute of religious principle — like a 
bark at sea, without rudder or compass. I have 
studied him well. Fortune has favored him in every 
particular, and Nature certainly has not been nig- 
gard of her gifts. Of high social standing, rich in 
the world’s wealth, and possessed of genius and 
manly beauty, one almost forgets when under the 
influence of his fascinations that there is one thing 
needful, and which, after sounding him well, I fear 
I could never supply. His susceptibilities, on mat- 
ters pertaining to the life to come, seem to be per- 
fectly blunted. I have tried to draw him into seri- 
ous discussions, but he has always turned me off 
with a laugh, and a declaration that he was ready 
to espouse any religion, only I must not ask him to 
read ; he was willing to take it all on trust ; ‘ what 
should it be — Catholic, Hottentot or Jew?’ I am 
convinced that nothing but the special grace of God 
will ever waken him to a sense of his accountability 
to his maker.” 

“ But Edith, his love for you — 

“ Pardon me, mother, his love for me is not of 
such a nature as would be likely to operate for the 
eternal interest of either of us ; were it not for my 
religion, which furnishes so much for the heart to 
rest upon, I might become absorbed in an attach- 


THE EVE OF DEPAKTURE. 


11 


ment tliat would bring me miserj?-, as it did poor 
May Webb; wliat you style a youthful indiscretion 
I consider almost a crime. 

It was seven years ago, but I remember as if it 
were but yesterday that I culled the fairest flowers 
in my garden to lay beside the sick girl’s pillow.” 

“ I have always believed Mr. Howard to have 
been unjustly censured,” interrupted the mother. 

“Now listen mother; you are ignorant of many 
of the circumstances, and let me relate them as I 
know them to be true. I was but twelve years old 
and May was seventeen. Each day as I passed 
from school I stopped at the cottage for I loved her, 
but it made my heart ache to see her passing so 
rapidly from earth; when the autumn winds came 
and I was told that they would hasten her death I 
wept bitterly, but child as I was I shed not a single 
tear when a few weeks after I gazed on her face 
which was so calm and beautiful in death’s repose 
that it seemed to bespeak the peace and rest of Para- 
dise. Then I thought it hard that she should be 
called from earth so young, now I understand it 
was her salvation, tho’ that does not in the least, 
lessen Charles Howard’s culpability ; she died a most 
edifying death; the Webbs were merely nominal 
Catholics, never having identified themselves with 
the Church, and May had not even made her first 
communion. But in the early stage of her illness 
she requested her mother to send for the clergyman, 
and from that time she gave herself wholly up to 
God. ’Tis true she inherited consumption, but up 
to the period of Charles Howard’s sudden departure 


12 


BEECH BLUFF. 


she had seemed strong and healthy. There is not 
a doubt that grief and disappointment developed 
the disease. Frequently during her sickness she 
received the sacraments, and often said to her 
mother, “ God’s ways are not as our ways. He has 
sent this sickness to bring us all to Him ; now I see 
what a selfish, sensual life I led, and had every 
thing occurred as I desired I should never have 
found the new life that has dawned upon me 
now.” Another time she addressed her mother 
abruptly as tho’ her mind had been dwelling upon 
the subject, “do you know mother, that never iden- 
tifying one’s-self with the Church is self-excommu- 
nication ? Going to mass occasionally don’t consti- 
tute a Catholic ; wbat a waste of time to live in the 
world without God !” 

I had known Charles Howard two years before I 
learned from Mrs. Webb that he visited her house 
as her son’s friend when May was sixteen ; from the 
first he appeared to take a deep interest in every 
thing concerning his friends little sister as he called 
her. , 

After a vacation of six weeks. May’s brother re- 
turned to college to complete his studies, but Charles 
remained in B and continued to visit the cot- 

tage. May was made the recipient of books and 
flowers, and every word and action of her brother’s 
friend spoke volumes of love; when his handsome 
face bent over her to read some fine passage in a 
favorite book, her tell-tale face revealed but too 
plainly that she returned his love and trusted him. 
Months went on, months of happiness to May, for 


THE EVE OF DEPi^TURE. 13 

every evening found Charles at the cottage, almost 
filling the place of her brother; she looked up 
to him with a pure and holy love amounting almost 
to veneration, and her mother welcomed him as a 
son. Suddenly he became cold and distant, and his 
visits grew less frequent; at length they ceased 
altogether. One day, after an absence of several 
weeks, he called at Mrs. Webb’s for the purpose, 
he said, gf bidding them good-bye. May asked 
him, with astonishing calmness, almost indifference, 
how long he purposed remaining abroad. 

“Not longer,” he replied carelessly, “than three 
years.” He left. After traveling over Europe the 
specified time, he returned to find May in a happier 
home than it could have been in his power to fur- 
nish her. When informed of her death, his only re- 
mark was: 

“ Ah, well ! better so; she was a good little girl.” 

“ Better so, indeed. He never would have gained 
her heaven; God’s ‘way’ was the best; it was a 
way by which May’s mother and brother were 
made good practical Christians.” 

“Howr did you become acquainted with these 
circumstances or details?” asked Edith’s mother, 
rising to close the shutters. 

“All I have told you I learned from Mrs. Webb. 
Her motive in communicating the facts was a dis- 
interested one ; she could not without a word of 
warning see me deceived as her owri child had been. 
It was not necessary, however ; I had fathomed his 
character, and knew we were not made for each 
other.” 

2 


14 


^EECH BLUFF. 

“ Then I charge you, my daughter, do not leave 
home cherishing his image in your heart.” 

“ Never fear dear mother ! I believe the tone of 
my mind is perfectly healthy, and that will control 
my heart; the thought of your favorite — looking 
up roguishly into her mother’s face — is always fol- 
lowed too closely by that of May Webb, and though 
I do not promise to forget him, you may rest as- 
sured that I shall not treat his image with any 
more tenderness or affection than it deserves. But 
it is late, very late, and I must go to my room and 
see how Grade progresses with the packing ; good 
night, dearest mother, and pleasant dreams.” 

Edith left the room, and after loitering a moment 
in the hall to speak with her brother George she 
ran lightly up the stairs. She found her sister Grace 
seafed on the floor beside a large trunk, delibera- 
ting with a grave face whether she should put 
Edith’s writing portfolio and dressing case in the 
top or at the bottom of the trunk, which question 
her sister settled immediately by saying that she 
should wish to use both articles on ' her journey, 
and therefore they must go in the top where she 
could get easy access to them ; she then commenced 
to assist Grace to pack, and while the sisters are 
thus engaged, we will take a look at them. 

Edith is tall and graceful, and though slight, her 
figure is well rounded and exquisitely proportioned. 
Her dark hair,* of which she has a profusion, is 
dressed in plain bands, and wound in heavy plaits 
around her small, finely formed head. No orna- 
ment either of ribbon or tinsel mars that “ crown- 


THE EVE OF DEPARTURE. 


15 


ing glory of woman.” Her eyes are large, dark 
and soft, but in animated conversation they light 
up with a brilliancy perfectly -bewildering. The 
form of her face is oval ; her complexion dark but 
clear, and the blood mounts to her cheeks, giving 
them a color but a trifle less ruddj^ than that of 
her delicately formed lips. Her teeth are white 
and regular, and the character of the lovely mouth 
baffles description. It is one of blended firmness 
and sweetness, and when she smiles, renders her ir- 
resistible. Edith is certainly beautiful; but aside 
from the beauty of form and feature, there is a 
nameless charm about her, a something in her man- 
ner and bearing that speaks of good birth and 
breeding, of innate refinement, and nobleness of 
soul. Her entire unconsciousness of her own love- 
liness, forgetfulness of self ; her affectionate atten- 
tions to all, and regardful care not to wound the 
feelings of any, have made her the darling of her 
home and the favorite of a large circle of friends. 

Grace is just sixteen, and in personal appearance 
is the very opposite of her sister. Her light hair, 
blue eyes, and fair round face, give her the ap- 
pearance of being much younger than she really is. 
She is one of those innocent, winsome beings whom 
one cannot look upon without loving. The same 
peculiar smile which we have described in Edith 
belongs to Grace also, and is the only point of re- 
semblance between the sisters. 

But the last article has been placed in the trunk, 
and the packing is finished. Grace, who always 
occupies her mother’s room, has given the good- 


16 


BEECH BLUFF. 


night kiss, and Edith is left alone. It is a warm 
night, and throwing herself in a large easy chair 
beside the low window, she fastens back the cur- 
tain which drapes it, and looks out upon the night. 
She thinks of the Past, and her eyes turn toward a 
slab of white marble, beneath which rest the remains 
of that good old man, her grandfather. It is a little 
to the north, just above the spring-house, and is 
quite perceptible in the moonlight. Beside it are 
two other graves, and above all there waves a 
drooping willow. How well she remembered her 
grandfather’s voice and manner as he used to bid 
her “keep on the sunny side, my dear; the sunny 
side, for it is always damp in the shade and then 
she thinks of the Present, and wonders if she is 
keeping on the “sunny side” by leaving home and 
friends to go among strangers ; or if she will be 
cast in the shade at her southern home. Rising to 
prepare for her couch, she murmurs, “ I will, as 
Longfellow bids, go forth to meet the shadowy 
Future, without fear, and with a brave heart!” 


CHAPTER IL 


RETROSPECTION’. 

Edith and Grace Stanford are the daughters of a 
widow; their hither died when Grace was an infant; 
he had been wealthy but extravagant and improvi- 
dent, and when his affiirs were settled aj'ter his 
death, it was found that but a mere pittance was 
left for the support of the widow and orphans. 
Edith was three years of age, and George, the only 
son, but nine, when they were bereaved of a father’s 
care. Mrs. Stanford had been raised quite plainly, 
but during her married life had resided in the beau- 
tiful village of B •, in one of our most northern 

States, and had been surrounded by every luxury. 
She was a woman of good sense, and when she 
learned that everything must be sold, and there was 
no alternative but for her to return to her father’s 
house, she did not murmur, but calmly agreed to 
the proposal, saying that she should not feel like 
an interloper, as, “being the only child, there were no 
fidgety aunts or bachelor uncles to be annoyed by 
her little ones. 

Mr. Allen, the father of Mrs. Stanford, was a 
plain farmer, residing in the country on a small 

farm about four miles from B . His wife, Mrs. 

Stanford’s stepmother, had been dead a year, and he 
gladly welcomed to his lonely hearth his daughter, 
and gazed witli pleasure ou the bright faces of his 


18 


BEECH BLUFF. 


grandchildren. Five years passed, daring which 
time Mrs. Stanford taught Edith and George at 
home; at the end of that time she was persuaded to 
send them to a sclioolin the village. They boarded 
at the house of a friend during the week, returning 
liome every Friday evening, and remaining until 
Monday morning. From that time, Edith, although 
but eight years old, cherished the idea of becoming 
a teacher, and when asked often in sport by her 
companions when she intended to begin to teach, 
she would invariably reply “ as soon as ever I am 
eighteen.” Her mother encouraged the idea, think- 
ing it would stimulate her in her studies, and know- 
ing the farm yielded but a small income, she thought 
it but right that her children should turn their 
talents to account. She did not dream, however, 
that Edith’s hobby, to which she clung so pertina- 
ciously, would carry her so far from home, and 
throw her, a pensioner, upon the kindness of stran- 
gers. 

At the age of thirteen Edith entered the semi- 
nary, and in four years hnished the course, gradu- 
ating with honor, the youngest in her class. 

The principal had been made aware of her inten- 
tion to support herself by teaching, and offered her 
a vacancy in the school, saying that, if she preferred 
it at the end of the year, he would procure her a 
pituation as governess jn a family. She acquiesced, 
and entered upon her duties, discharging them 
faithfully. Grace, who was then fifteen, and a 
pupil in the institution, was her constant compan- 
ion out of school hours. Her grandfather had died 


RETEOSPEOTION. 


19 


during her last scholastic .year, leaving the farm to 
.her brother Greorge, and a life annuity to her mother. 

Edith was not obliged to maintain herself by 
teaching, but a spirit of independence, as well as 
a desire to be removed entirely from the society of 
one who, in spite of her, was acquiring a most un- 
accountable influence, determined her to leave 
home; when her brother would tell her long stories 
about shabbily treated governesses, and ask her 
why she wished to run the risk of being disagreea- 
bly situated, instead of being content to remain at 
the seminary, or of taking up with other offers at 
home, she would answer him laughingly, “Well, I 
am tired of the Yankees^ and wish to know if gov- 
ernesses are really so maltreated as a class.” 

And so it was settled in all their minds that 
Edith’s inevitable vocation was for teaching and 
governing, and there was no longer any struggling 
against it. 

Mrs. Standford was what is usually termed a 
“ good woman Faithful in the discharge of her 
social and domestic duties, tho’ careless in those 
appertaining to religion, if we accept a punctual 
attendance at mass on Sundays. Mr. Stanford 
had became a Catholic on his death-bed, and their 
long married life having been most happy, she 
thought a diflerence of religion no impediment to 
her daughter’s union with Mr. Howard, — a union 
every way advantageous in a wordly point of view. 

In B there were but few Catholics of her own 

standing, and her entire circle of acquaintances was 
made up of Protestants, and those too wIk) were in 


20 


BEECH BLUFF. 


their own way religious, many really spirit- 
ually minded. If her daughters were to wait for 
Catholic husbands their chances for matrimony 
would be poor indeed, and Edith, being a thorough 
going practical Catholic, could not fail to bring 
over eventually any one of a different faith whom, 
loved and loving, she might marry. 

But Edith thought differently, as we have learned 
from her conversation with her mother ; and rather 
than be constantly exposed to the fascinations, and 
oft repeated pleadings, of one, between whom and 
herself there existed not a complete union of senti- 
ent, — one whose many attractions were in her view, 
no counterpoise to the heartlessness, and want of 
religious principle manifested in the one known 
passage of his life, — she would for a time separate 
herself from those the most dear, and in a fully 
occupied life, amongst strange scenes, cease to think 
of him, save as a kind and agreeable acquaintance. 
It was no common character that could thus turn 
aside from the allurements of wealth, and position, 
and lending but a deaf ear to the pleadings of her 
heart, enter deliberately into a way that might pos- 
sibly be filled with brambles, and discover ruts, 
and inequalities, where she had been used to find a 
perfect level — But “the seal which marks our 
destiny has usually been stamped on our childhoovl ; 
and most men as they look back to their early youth 
can remember the accident, the book, the conversa- 
tion which gave the shape to their character, which 
events have subsequently developed.” Edith could 
remember the very day her seal was set — “ I would 


RETROSPECTION. 


21 


not wish them to be otherwise than prcTCtical Catho- 
lics, if I am not myself,” said Mrs. Stanford to her 
husband one evening in allusion to her children. 

“You remember what Montaigne says,” he re- 
plied, “‘saying is quite a different thing from do- 
ing; the preaching and preacher must be considered 
apart.’ 1 am afraid, my dear, you are but a wooden 
Catholic, and the children will not be long in dis- 
covering that the ‘ preaching and preacher ’ don’t 
correspond — perhaps a little example joined to the 
precept would do better.” 

“ True,” replied her mother smiling, “ but do you 
remember what somebody else says, I forget whom, 
that “ vice and virtue should be independent of 
custom or example?” This applies equally to the 
practice of religion.” 

“Should be,” certainly, but when and how often 
is it found so? 

“I’ll never be a wooden Catholic” resolved Edith 
who was an unobserved listener to the conversation, 
and she kept fealty to her resolution. 

One afternoon, near the close of the Summer 
term, Edith received a message from Mr. Kichards, 
the principal, requesting an interview with her in 
the parlor. He met her at the door, and inviting 
her in, desired her to be seated. “ I have this 
morning received a letter from a gentleman in 
Georgia, applying to me for a governess,” said he, 
“ and I know of no person so well qualified to fill 
the situation as yourself. The gentleman states that 
he has two daughters, and he wishes a person com- 
petent to teach music, both vocal and instrumental, 


BEECH BLUFF. 


22 


French, and the English branches usually taught in 
our schools. He offers a reasonable salary, and 
will defray the traveling expenses of the young lady. 
I will submit this to your consideration, desiring 
you to return me an answer in the course of a week. 
I will merely add that, in the event of your declin- 
ing the situation, I shall be but too happy to retain 
your services in this institution.” 

The answer was returned that week as desired, 
and was an acceptance, and the evening on which 
Edith is introduced to the reader is that prior to 
her departure. 


CHAPTER HI. 


THE DEPARTURE. 

The sun was shining full on Edith’s pillow the 
next morning, when she was awakened by her 
sister exclaiming, with forced gaiety, “ Come, open 
your eyes, Edith, or has that sun shining right in 
your face made you blind ?” and then giving her 
sister an affectionate kiss, she added, “ While you 
are dressing, I will run down and give Vagabond 
his seed.” 

Edith sprang out of bed, and kneeling down, 
repeated her morning prayers. She then dressed 
herself for her journey, and descended to the break- 
fast-room, where she found her mother and George 
already seated at the table, and Grace standing be- 
fore the bird-cage scolding “ Yag,” her pet canary, 
for not bathing himself properly. 

The breakfast passed over quite cheerfully. Grace 
kept up a running conversation with her brother, 
asking questions, and answering herself when not 
replied to, while Mrs. Stanford and Edith conversed 
on general subjects; all, ho\\^ever, seeming to avoid 
the one subject uppermost in their minds, Edith’s 
departure. 

But now the carriage is at the door, and the trunk 
securely strapped to the back of it. Edith has bid- 
den the servant good-by, and patted old Nero’s head 


BEECH BLUFF. 


24 


for the last time ; giving a last look at her grand- 
father’s grave, as she seats herself in the carriage 
beside her mother, she observes that it is not in the 
shade of the old willow at all, and thinks, “ That is 
quite right; no sorrow ever drooped so low over 
his spirits as to make them gloomy, and that mar- 
ble, so bright and sunny, is but typical of his life.” 

As they roll away from the gate, Grrace, who oc- 
cupies the front seat with her brother George, turns 
to Edith, and, with a tear in her eye, remarks: 
“ How lonely I shall be when I resume my studies 
next term, and have to travel this road alone every 
Monday morning !” 

“ You’ll not go alone, I am sure,” said George, 
“ unless, contrary to your usual custom, you leave 
me at home, and drive the horse yourself.” 

“ Oh, you’ll go of course ; but you know, brother, 
that you are not Edith.” 

“ I am fully sensible of that fact,” he replied, add- 
ing, with a spice of indignation in his tone, “ If I 
were Edith, I don’t think I should leave a happy 
home and loving friends for the pleasure of going 
among strangers to teach a few stupid ideas how to 
shoot.” 

“ If you were constituted like me, George, you 
would do exactly as I do,” said Edith, calmly. 

“How, George,” interrupted Grace, “you need 
not say anything disagreeable to sister Edith. I, 
for my part, am viewing the matter in a cheerful 
light” — here the tears streamed down her cheeks, 
and a sob contradicted the assertion ; but she con- 
tinued: “I will have finislied school when she re- 


THE DEPAKTURE. 


25 


turns, and we will be at home with yoif and mother, 
and I think it will be perfectly delightful to have 
her tell us all about Southern life; and then the 
letters! You will write every week, won’t you, 
sister? Your absence would be quite unendurable 
if it were not for those long letters you are to send 
But I intend to make you regret as much as possi- 
ble that you ever left home, for I am going deliber- 
ately to work to steal the hearts of all your beaux, 
and I intend to make Charles Howard my first con 
quest. It is such a pity,” she continued, “ that my 
hair has retained its ‘ pristine whiteness,’ for I once 
heard him say that he could never fall in love with 
a ‘light-haired baby-face.’ ” 

“ Oh, that does not matter,” said Edith, laughing; 
“you can use ‘ Black Pomade like that you saw in 
Tant’s room” — meaning the French teacher at the 
seminary. 

“ Better buy a wig at once,” suggested George, 
looking affectionately on Grace’s bright face, which 
was now all smiles, and doubting in his own mind 
if even Charles Howard could' wish to change her 
vision-like style of beauty. 

The conversation was kept up until they reached 

B , Mrs. Stanford, however, taking no part in 

it, for she was very sad, and was not disposed to 
assume a gaiety which she did not feel. As soon 
as they came in sight of the depot Grace’s smiles all 
vanished, and it was evident that she no longer 
viewed the matter in a cheerful light. 

“Oh, Edith, dear, I wish you were going home 
with us instead of in those ugly cars. There ! I 


2G 


BEECH BLUFF. 


hoar the whistle, and it goes straight through my 
l)ead like a knife.” 

“ You are nervous, Grade,” said her sister to her, 
aside, after they had entered the depot. “ You 
must not give way to your feelings, but be cheerful, 
and not make mother more gloomy by your sad 
spirits. And when you are at home you must take 
my place and read to her, so that she will not miss 
me so much. I left ^^Fahlola'^ on the work-table, and 
you will find the mark in it where I left off. Eead 
on just as if I were there, and always have some in- 
teresting book on hand that you can take up at any 
moment, for you know there is nothing dear 
mother likes so much as listening to us read aloud. 
But, come! dry up your tears, and be introduced to 
Mrs. Richards’ brother. You know that he is go- 
ing to Florida, and is to take charge of me as far as 
Augusta.” 

The introduction took place; and, leaving her 
sister and Mr. Acton together, Edith joined her 
mother and George, who stood in conversation with 
Mr. Richards. Just then some of Edith’s young 
friends came running in with flushed faces, exclaim- 
^ing; “Oh, Edith 1 we were so afraid we would be 
too late, but are just in time to say good-by.” 

And so it proved, for at that moment a voice 
sounded through the depot, “All aboard!” Uusty 
good-byes were exchanged, and a fervent “ God 
bless you, my daughter !” from Mrs. Stanford, as 
she embraced her child, and bade her “ write soon.” 
Grace wept hysterically, and clung to her sister’s 
neck, while Edith, though very pale, maintained 


THE DEPARTURE. 


27 


her calmness, and told Grace she must be “ more of 
a woman.” George manifested considerable emotion 
at thus parting for the first time with his sister, 
whom he dearly loved, but strove to hide it in un- 
necessary anxiety about her baggage. How well 
Edith remembered in after years her mother’s voice 
and manner at that last parting ! and she never for- 
got the strange, uncomfortable feeling which crept 
over her as, looking from the car window, she no- 
ticed that George and Grace stood full in the sun- 
light, while her mother, with her face veiled,- was 
completely in the shade. 

And now our young traveler is fairly started : 
and, bidding her, “ God speed,” we will leave her 
to pursue her journey, in the expectation of meet- 
ing her in difterent scenes, and surrounded by other 
faces. 


cn APTEE ly. 


BEECH BLUFF. 

Beautifully situated on a high bluff over-loolc- 
ing the Savannah Eiver, about twelve miles from 
Augusta, is a plantation known as “Beech Bluff.” 
This property belongs to Mr. Jacob Ellis, and is 
considered one of the finest in that section of the 
country. 

After viewing those broad acres which every 
year yield an abundant harvest, those groves of 
chestnut and magnolia skirting the smooth green 
lawn which fronts the mansion and stretches far 
down the bluff, the eye of the beholder rests awhile 
on the spacious garden in the rear, which exhibits 
luxuriant foliage, shaded arbors, inviting one to 
linger in their cool retreat, and serpentine Avalks, 
bordered with those gorgeous southern flowers 
which in the splendor of their vesture, nature has 
made to outrival even the glory of Solomon. 

The breeze from the river parts the foliage, re- 
vealing in the distance beyond the garden a number 
of low, white-washed cabins, which indicate the 
locality of the negro quarter ; and still further on 
can be seen the cotton gin which is so indispensible 
on a Southern plantation, and for which planters 
are so much indebted to the mechanical genius of 
Eli Whitney. Beside it stands the cotton press, 


BEECH BLUFF. 29 

which receives the soft, downy substance, and sends 
it forth in bales, ready for transportation. 

“ The house of Jacob hath indeed goodly posses- 
sions.” So thinks Edith Stanford, as, standing at 
an upper window which commands an extensive 
view of the Bluff, she listens to Mr. Ellis as he gives 
her a history of the place from the time of his grand- 
father. She gazes out and admires the arrange- 
ment of the lawn and garden, and Mr. Ellis remarks, 
with a gratified smile, that all else he leaves to the 
care of his overseer, but the pleasure-grounds are 
his own particular charge. 

“Papa, can’t Uncle Anthony gear up, and take 
us to ride this morning ?” asked Martha, the elder 
daughter, who, with her sister Mary, was standing 
beside her father. 

“Not this morning, my dear ; it is too warm, and 
besides I think Miss Edith would like to rest after 
her long journey. You can go down and show her 
the school-room and library. I dare say that Mary 
is anxious to introduce her to the books by this 
time : are you not, Mary ?” said he, addressing a 
frail, delicate-looking girl, with large hazel eyes 
and short, thick brown curls. She smiled, and, 
blushing, drew closer to him, but made no reply. 

At that moment a black woolly head made its 
appearance above the staircase, and a voice in the 
negro dialect asked for “ Massa Jacob.” 

“ Here, Josh,” said his master. “ What’s want- 
ing ?” 

“ Uncle Sigh am in de garden, and wants to know 
about dem garden chairs.” 


30 


BEECH BLUFF. 


“ Tell him I’ll be there directly.” 

The head disappeared in a trice, and Mr. Ellis 
prepared to follow, first telling Edith that he hoped 
she would make herself at home and become do- 
mesticated as soon as possible. “You will find 
Mary quite companionable when she throws off her 
mantle of shyness and reserve in which she usually 
wraps herself in the presence of strangers,” said he ; 
“ but Matty is a sad flj'-away ; too restless to be any- 
thing but a nuisance.” And, shaking his head 
Avith a smile, he, too, disappeared, and a moment 
after was seen in the garden engaged in conversa- 
tion with an old colored man. 

Left alone with the two girls, Edith soon set the 
ball of conversation in motion, and Martha’s volu- 
bility kept it moving. Mary’s shyness gradually 
wore off, though she did not become in the least 
degree familiar, for she was naturally of a reserved 
disposition. They went down to the library, and 
thence to the school-room adjoining, both apart- 
ments opening out upon a piazza overlooking the 
garden. Edith looked around the little room' of 
which she was to be monarch for two years, and 
then glanced at her two subjects, one of whom, 
judging from appearances, she feared might prove 
rebellious, and offer open resistance to her author- 
ity if confined within bounds, or restrained of plea- 
sure or liberty against her will. It did not require 
much discriminating wisdom to discover this, for 
“ Wilful” Avas written in legible characters on the 
broad brow and in the quick glance of the restless 
blue eye, while “ I Avill” spoke as plainly from the 


BEECH BLUFF. 


31 


erect, defiant position of the head as if the lips had 
uttered it. 

1 hope we will get alone amicably,” thought 
Edith. And then, addressing the girls, she asked 
how they liked the idea of commencing their studies 
the following Monday. 

“ Let me see,” said Mary. “ That will be four 
days.” And then, after a pause, she added: “Why, 
I am very glad, for we are obliged to stay in the 
house during the warmest part of the day, and I 
would just as soon study as do nothing at all.” 

“ Doing nothing at all is not your style, Mary,” 
said Martha, mimicking her- sister’s rather drawling 
tone, “ for you are always poring over some stupid 
book or other, instead of amusing yourself in a sen- 
sible manner, as I do. Why don’t you say that 
you shall like it very much ? I am sure I shall” — 
here Mary bestowed upon her sister such a look of 
atonishment that she colored slightly, and, after 
hesitating a moment, added — “ with Miss Edith 
for our teacher; you- know I never could endure 
Miss Hannah.” And then, turning to Edith, with a 
comical look of disgust at the remembrance, she 
continued : “ She had the dyspepsia, and was always 
rushing up and down the room complaining of the 
‘ change of diet,’ and the acid in ber stomach, if she 
had said the acid in her temper, I’d have liked it 
better, and believed her.” 

“You know, sister, that you used to torment 
Miss Hannah by sneezing just in the midst of your 
recitation,” interrupted Mary. 

“ Yes ; but how could I help it,” replied Martha, 


32 


BEECH BLUFF. 


‘‘when she took snuff, and would persist in looking 
over my book instead of her own, and shake her 
handkerchief in my face ?” 

“ She never annoyed me in that way,” mildly re- 
plied her sister. 

“O no; because you were a little saint; you 
know you were ; but I am sure she looked fierce 
enough at you one day for laughing when I sneezed 
so loud, that it made her jump, and she upset the 
inkstand over that colored silk.” 

“ Yes, Miss Edith,” exclaimed Mary, with more 
animation than she had before exhibited, “ and her 
best dress, too, poor tHThgl It was completely 
rained. I was very sorry, but indeed I could not 
help laughing, for Matty looked so frightened, and 
Miss Hannah’s position was so ludicrous peering 
over her spectacles first at Matty, then at me, and 
then at the ink which was dripping off the table on 
to her dress. She did not often put that dress on, 
but that day papa had some friends from Augusta, 
and she had dressed in the morning for dinner.” 

“ Which she had no business to do,” interrupted 
Martha ; “ I am sure mamma offered to replace the 
dress, but Miss Hannah ^scorned the idea ;’ though 
she did not scorn the fifty dollars which papa gave 
her in addition to her salary when she went away.” 

“How long since she left here?” Edith ventured 
to ask. 

“ Six months,” replied Martha. “ She stayed four 
months after mamma died, and then suddenly dis- 
covered that it was not proper (she was always 
talking about propriety) to live here, because papa 


BEECH BLUFF. 


was a widower. As if any widower in the known 
world would look at her !” 

“ Hush, Matty !” said Mary ; “ papa would not 
like to hear you talk in that way-” 

“ It’s a fact, nevertheless,” said Martha, elevating 
her eyebrows, and nodding her head significantly, 
“ and you know Miss Hannah used to say that 
‘facts were stubborn things;’ looking at me all the 
time as if she were staring a stubborn fact in the 
face.” 

“ Well, you are stubborn sometimes, Matty ; and 
Miss Hannah told papa ” 

“ Hever you mind what that old dame told papa,” 
interrupted Martha, evidently not wishing Edith 
to know ; “ she went away because she did not 
want to be sneezed at. The idea of my handsome 
papa going to church with her! ha, ha! Well,” 
she continued, looking serious, “poor papa is a 
widower, and he misses dear mamma very much 
but he’ll- not put any one else in her place very 
quick, I know.” Shrugging, her shoulders, she 
looked at Edith as if to note the effect her words 
had upon her. 

“ For the first time, the thought of there being 
any impropriety in her position in the house, sim- 
ply because the master of it was a widower, was 
suggested to Edith’s mind, but she immediately re- 
pelled it, as indignantly, probably, as Miss Hannah 
had scorned the offer to replace her dress. “ Per- 
fectly absurd !” she said to herself; “to be sure I 
have been here but little more than twenty-four 
hours; but, judging from what I have seen of Mr. 


BEECH BLUFF. 


34 

Ellis, I think I am justified in believing that he 
would never draw any woman into any situation 
whatever that would compromise her in the least. 
He told me yesterday morning in the carriage, com- 
ing from Augusta, that he regretted that there was. 
no one to receive me and dispense the hospitalities 
of his house but himself and the children ; but it 
never occured to me, when he added that his wife 
had been dead ten months, that there was any im- 
propriety in a young lady taking up her residence 
here as governess. My only feeling was that of 
compassion for the poor motherless girls. I am 
sorry that Miss Martha has received this notion into 
her head, for I can plainly see that she will use it to 
advantage in case of provocation. However, I will 
not make myself uncomfortable in mind about it, 
for here I am, and here I must remain.” With 
this wise conclusion, and her composure perfectly 
restored, she turned with the intention of going 
into the library, and just in time, as it proved, to 
catch the last act of the pantomime which had been 
going on at her back while she was lost in thought. 
Mary, with an indignant expression of countenance, 
was holding up her finger threateningly, and nodd- 
ing her head in a significant manner towards the 
garden, where Mr. Ellis’s voice could be heard in 
conversation with Uncle Sigh; while Martha, with 
an empty inkstand in her hand, was motioning as 
if in the act of throwing something on Edith’s dress, 
her whole countenance lighted up with suppressed 
mirth, and her face contorted like a person’s in the 
act of sneezing. Edith, quite as much amused 


BEECH BLUFF. 


35 


probably as Mary bad been at a somewhat similar 
scene in the sartie room, between Martha and Miss 
Hannah, moved towards the library, saying, with 
an ill-concealed smile. 

“ Come, let us look at the books.” 

They passed into the adjoining room, and taking 
down a volume, Edith asked Mary what were her 
favorites. 

“Scott is my favorite author, and I like Mrs. 
Hemans, too,” she replied. 

“And what books do you read?” she inquired, 
turning to Martha. 

“ Why, I think I like Robinson Crusoe as well as 
any book there; it is the only one I ever read, any 
way,” said she, flourishing a dust-brush, which 
Nelly the housemaid had carelessly left on the 
sofa. 

“A contrast in taste, certainly I” thought Edith 
“ Here is Mary, twelve years old, reading Scott and 
Hemans, while Miss Martha, two years her senior, 
is giving her undivided attention to Robinson 
Crusoe;” and, looking at the sisters, she thought 
the contrast in their appearance quite as great. 
Mary was reclining against the window-sill, the 
very embodiment of girlish grace and beauty, her 
small white hand half buried in her clustering 
curls, and her large expressive eyes following her 
sister’s movements, while an amused smile hovered 
around her lips, parting them and displaying a set 
of small pearly teeth. The fairness of her complex- 
ion was enhanced by her black dress, cut low, ex- 
posing neck and shoulders of dazzling whiteness. 


86 


BEECH BLUFF. 


She blushed, as, looking up, she caught Edith’s eye 
fastened upon her, and, changing her position, took 
a book from the table and slowly turned over the 
leaves. 

Martha was standing in the centre of the room, 
looking threateningly at a huge ‘fly on the ceiling, 
as if she meditated an application of the dust brush, 
and Edith, as she looked at her, asked involunta- 
rily, “ How much do you weigh ?” 

“ One hundred and forty-seven; I was weighed 
yesterday at the cotton-gin,” was the reply in an 
emphatic tone, as if the owner of so much flesh glo- 
ried in its possession. 

“You weighed one hundred and fifty once,” said 
Mary. 

“ Yes, when Miss Hannah first came here; but 
she shook three pounds off' me.” 

“Why, sister I” exclaimed Mary in surprise, 
“ Miss Hannah never shook you in her life.” 

“ Shook her handkerchief in my face, and made 
me sneeze it off, which is all the same thing,” said 
Martha, laconically. The sisters still wore mourn- 
ing for their mother, and Martha had on a black 
dress which was far too short for a girl of her size, 
and put on so carelessly that her figure looked 
still more bulky. Her hair, of a reddish-brown 
color, was twisted up in a knot at the back of her 
head, and had evidently not been combed that day ; 
her blue eyes were full of mischief, and her lips, 
always working restlessly, were large, though not 
badly shaped ; her complexion was of that peculiar 
fairness which usually accompanies red or auburn 


BEECH BLUFF. 


37 


liair, but wbicb freckles easily, and her face and 
neck were covered with these unsightly blemishes. 
Full of life and overflowing spirits, she had a keen 
relish for fun, which often induced her to play jokes 
on the negroes; but she was a favorite on the plan- 
tation notwithstanding, and any one of them would 
incur his master’s displeasure rather than bring 
‘‘young missus” into disgrace with her papa, by 
telling him the author of the mischief. She was 
naturally affectionate in disposition, and those whom 
she loved were never annoyed by her propensity to 
tease, when she found that it was really disagreea- 
ble ; but she was ingenious in contrivances to tor- 
ment those whom she did not particularly fancy, to 
which fact poor Miss Hannah could testify, and also 
Aunt Cilia the housekeeper. Possessing great pene- 
tration, she could discover at once the most tender 
spot in another’s feelings, and proceed to apply her 
caustic touches where they would burn most deeply. 
After her mother’s death Miss Hannah’s unguarded 
remarks about remaining in the house with a 
widower, and openly expressed fears as to what the 
world would say, revealed to Martha her teacher’s 
most vulnerable point, and afforded a brilliant op- 
portunity for the exercise of her talent. With a 
great assumption of indignation at Uncle Anthony’s, 
Uncle Sigh’s, or some other colored uncle’s impu- 
dence, she would rush in upon Miss Hannah when 
that good spinster was in one of her most quiet 
moods, and startle her with, 

“Did you ever hear the like. Miss Hannah? 

Uncle Sigh says that you need not set your last new 

4 


38 


BEECH BLUFF. 


black cap for papa, for it would not catch a crab, 
let alone a fine trout ; and I just think I’ll tell his 
master, for he oughtn't to be allowed to speak his 
mind so freely about the white folks.” 

At Miss Hannah’s earnest supplication not to 
mention it to her papa, she would yield, with appa- 
rent unwillingness, however, saying that the 
blacks had better be picking at their cotton instead 
of at Miss Hannah’s yellow ribbons;” generally 
adding, by way of parenthesis, “ Papa would settle 
them if he knew it,” and then disappear as suddenly 
as she came, delighted at her success in “ ruffling 
the old lady.” 

These daily repeated provocations at length had, 
to Martha, the desired effect; Miss Hannah could 
stand it no longer. In her credulity, believing that 
she was looked upon with suspicion by the negroes, 
whose opinion she had a great respect for, that of 
the house servants particularly, and more than half 
suspecting that Mr. Ellis imputed to her a less dis- 
interested motive for remaining after his wife’s 
death than solicitude for his children’s welfare, she 
one day, in a fit of desperation after listening to a 
fresh bulletin from the negro quarter, burst into 
the library in a great state of excitement, and, 
much to Mr. Ellis’s astonishment, commenced to 
vindicate herself, demanding at the same time “ an 
explanation of the foul aspersions.” 

Mr. Ellis rose, and, offering her a chair, requested 
her to be seated. Overcome by his kind manner, 
she sank into the seat and burst into a flood of 
tears. Mr. Ellis paced up and down the room at a loss 


BEECH BLUFF. 


39 


to know what the unusual scene meant ; his visi- 
tor becoming more calm, he seated himself on the 
sofa, and attentively listened to the whole story, 
which was related with considerable stammerinsf 
on Miss Hannah’s part, whose suspicions as to Mr. 
Ellis’s opinion of her had given place to a womanly 
feeling of delicacy and considerable embarrassment 
on having to tell him that she was suspected by his 
servants of having matrimonial designs upon him. 

Mr. Ellis could with difficulty refrain from 
laughing; but, assuming the most respectful and 
deferential manner, he assured her that it was noth- 
ing more than Martha’s nonsense, which, though 
certainly very reprehensible, he hoped she would 
overlook and forget. Calling Martha, who looked 
the least bit in the world abashed by her father’s 
stern look, he asked what she meant by disturbing 
Miss Hannah so often. 

“ It was all meant in fun, papa. Uncle Anthony 
told me one day when I was teazing him that he 
would put you up to marry Miss Hannah, and then 
I’d have a mother that would make me step around, 
and I just told Miss Hannah for fun, because she 
was always wondering what people would say to 
her staying here after mamma died, and I thought 
I’d just let her know what the black people said, 
any way.” 

Reprimanding Martha severely for her disrespect 
to her teacher, and for exaggerating, which she ac- 
knowledged that she did in repeating what had 
been said, her father sent her to her room in tears, 
for she loved him devotedly, and when she saw 


40 


BEECH BLUFF. 


that he was really offended her sorrow was deep, 
and prolific of a great many resolutions to amend, 
which, if they had been kept, would have effected 
a marvellous change in the wild, wilful girl. Miss 
Hannah soon after passed to her own room, and the 
subject was not again alluded to. Mr. Ellis showed 
neither by word nor look that he remembered the 
occurrence, but appeared not the least surpri^d 
when, the following week. Miss Hannah announced 
at the dinner-table her intended departure. A few 
days after, the carriage was at the door, and she 
was conveyed to Augusta, much to Martha’s satis- 
faction, who complimented herself on her able gen- 
eralship in putting her enemy to flight. She looked 
upon teachers in general, and governeses in particu- 
lar, as avowed enemies to youth, and, as “ all is 
fair in war,” she felt that she had fairly gotten rid 
of her adversary. 

The surprise of both the girls was very’ great 
when told by their father that another lady would 
soon arrive to take Miss Hannah’s place. The in- 
formation was received with pleasure by Mary, 
and Martha received it with a better grace than 
her father expected, and also his admonitions in 
regard to her conduct towards her future teacher. 
On Edith’s arrival, Martha gazed in astonishment 
at her beaut}^, for she had expected to see a person 
after the order of Miss Hannah, and if Edith had 
come in any other capacity than that of school- 
ma’am, Martha, who had a taste for the beautiful, 
though she did not exercise it much in the arrange- 
ment of her toilet, would, without doubt, have re- 


BEECH BLUFF. 


41 


ceived her witTi open arms, as it was, she felt more 
friendly towards her, concluding that no one so 
pretty as Miss Edith could ever scold ; of which 
fact she was convinced when Edith smiled so plea- 
santly at the pantomime scene instead of resenting 
the implied injury to her dress, as Miss Hannah 
would have done. 


CHAPTER Y. 


MAGIC MEASURES. 

Edith and her pupils lingered in the library until 
dinner-time, looking over the books, and conver- 
sing; Edith gaining a great deal of informatics 
without asking any questions, for Martha was d™ 
posed to be communicative and needed no encour- 
agement to continue; she would have given the 
whole family history had not Edith interrupted 
her when she found she was trespassing on delicate 
ground, by asking about their church. 

“You know papa is an Episcopalian; but be 
generally goes with us to the Catholic church six 
miles from here, whenever there is mass, which 
only happens once a month. Mamma was a Catho- 
lic, and papa promised her that we should be 
brought up Catholics too. There is no Episcopal 
church nearer than Augusta. Let me see. Look 
here Mary” said she addressing her sister “ is there 
mass next Sunday?” 

I believe so. Yes, I know there is, for I heard 
papa tell Peter that Father Ward was coming home 
with us, and would visit the sick ones at the negro 
quarter in the evening. 

“ Can you ride horse-back, Miss Edith ?” asked 
Martha with much interest; but without Avaitino- 
for a reply, she added “because if you can’t, Avhy 
you’ll have to learn right away, for there is only a 
foot-path to the church, and we cannot go in our 


MAGIC MEASURES. 


43 


carriage without going two miles out of the way. 
But if you can’t ride in the saddle I reckon you 
can ride behind papa, for all our horses tote dou- 
ble !” 

“ Edith, much amused, asked what she meant by 
tote double.” 

“Why carrying two, of course ; did’nt you ever 
see any one ride behind like a bag of meal coming 
from the mill?” 

Edith confessed her ignorance of that mode of 
traveling, and Martha proceeded to explain. 

“ Why, if you ride behind papa, you will have the 
saddle blanket to sit on, and you will find it a very 
comfortable seat, if you don’t tumble off ; but you 
won’t do that if you put your arm around papa, 
and hold on to his coat. That’s the way I used to 
do before I had my horse. I’ve such a splendid 
horse. Miss Edith ; his name is Selim, and he knows 
me as well as the green grass he eats. Don’t he, 
Mary ?” 

Your riding skirt is green, Matty, and I reckon 
that is the reason,” said Mary, with the most inno- 
cent manner in the world, though Edith detected a 
smile lurking around the corners of her mouth. 

“ If that is the reason, you better keep out of his 
way,” replied her sister, tartly, “ for you look ex- 
actly like a blade of grass in your green skirt, and 
he might snap you up by mistake.” 

“ Ha ! ha !” laughed out Nelly, who was setting 
things to rights. “You better not sed any t’ing, 
Miss Mary, for Miss Matty always comes out of an 
argument upside down.” 


44 


BEECH BLUFF. 


“You mean riglit side up, Kelly,” said Mary, 
laughing. “But mind your dusting, and don’t 
disturb papa’s book there, for you know he doesn’t 
like his books and papers interfered with.” And, 
as slie moved the volume carefully to one side, 
Edith’s eye caught the title of a poem, and she 
smiled as she said to herself; “ no fear of the gov- 
erness being treated shabbily by one having a 
taste for Tennyson.” # 

The sight of the volume recalled to her mind the 
little reading circle around the work-table at home ; 
and, repeating her mother’s favorite poem, from the 
Idyls of the Kings, she left the library, in company 
with the girls, to obey the summons to dinner. 

The dining-room, a long, narrow apartment, con- 
tained no furniture save the chairs and table and 
an old-fashioned sideboard with marble top and 
glass reflectors. The floor was covered with mat- 
ting, and on the walls were hung a few pictures in 
heavy gilt frames. Aunt Cilia, a middle-aged 
negro woman, waited upon the table, and Josh, the 
black boy before alluded to, stood behind his mas- 
ter’s chair, and, by means of a long string, kept in 
motion a covered frame or fan which was suspended 
to the ceiling, and served to keep off the flies. 

Edith noticed Mr. Ellis more particularly than 
she had before done, and perceived for the first time 
the striking likeness between Mary and her father. 
“ Then Martha must look like her mother,” thought 
she, and, glancing at the young lady who, by right 
of seniority, occupied the seat at the head of the 
table, she wondered if the mother had been as 


MAGIC MEASUKES. 


45 


slovenly in appearance, and thinking, if so, the con- 
trast must have been as great between the parents 
as in the daughters. Mr. Ellis was a tall, fine-look- 
ing man, with a head which phrenologists would 
have pronounced “ intellectual, “ large hazel eyes 
like Mary’s, and thick, wavy chestnut hair, which fell 
back from his broad, polished forehead without be- 
traying a single thread of silver. His dress was 
neat, even to preciseness, and his manners were 
easy, conversing without effort. He did not seem 
to look upon Edith as a stranger, but asked ques- 
tions about her journey, often anticipating her re- 
plies, and making comments as if she had just re- 
turned to Beech Bluff after a short absence, instead 
of having arrived only the day before a perfect 
stranger. 

After the meal was finished, Mr. Ellis asked 
Edith if she had tried the piano. 

“No, I have not,” she replied; “we have spent 
the morning in the library.” 

“Will you do so now, and favor us with some 
music ?” 

“ Certainly, if you wish it.” 

And, rising from the table, they passed through 
the family sitting-room into a large, elegantly fur- 
nished apartment with windows, opening to the 
floor and commanding a view of the lawn. Oppo- 
site the door at which they entered was an immense 
fireplace with marble mantel, above which hung the 
portrait of a lady so much resembling Martha that 
Edith guessed it at once to be that of her mother. 
The centre-table was covered with elegantly bound 


46 


BEECH BLUFF. 


books and niimerous expensive trifles, betokening a 
refined taste either in the master or mistress of the 
house — perhaps both. 

Mr. Ellis opened the instrument, which stood in 
a recess between two doors — one leading into the 
library and the other into the school-room — and 
then seated himself at one of the windows. Mary 
knelt, on a low ottoman at his side, and leaned on 
the arm of his chair, while her sister commenced 
pacing slowly up and down the room, tracing out 
the pattern of the rich Brussels carpet with her 
foot, until arrested by her sister’s rather impatient 
“ Don’t Matty ! Please sit down !” 

Punning her fingers lightly over the keys, Edith 
commenced playing selections from a favorite opera. 
Martha was at her side in a moment, her face ex- 
pressing the utmost delight; an-d when the music 
ceased eagerly begged for “ something else.” Edith 
continued to play piece after piece without turning 
round to note the effect upon her other listeners, 
for, indeed, she had almost forgotten their presence, 
so occupied was she with Martha, whose counten- 
ance varied with the expression of the music until 
Edith thought her positively beautiful. At length 
she ceased playing, and was about to rise from her 
seat, when Mary touched her lightly on the shoulder, 
and asked, in a timid voice, if she would not sing 
something. “ 0 yes, do !” pleaded Martha, adding, 
in a low voice, “ papa is so fond of vocal music !” 

Playing a short prelude, she commenced a beau- 
tiful Scotch ballad, and as her clear, rich voice rang 
through the rooms, no other sound was audible 


MAGIC MEASURES. 


47 


save tlie eliirping of birds and insects; for, with 
the negro’s characteristic love of music, the house- 
servants had suspended work, and were gathered in 
silent groups at the open doors and windows. Uncle 
Sigh had thrown down his pruning-hook at the first 
sound of the piano, and his dusky form leaned 
against the library door, hat in hand, and his gray 
woolly head bent forward, as if afraid of losing a 
single note. 

No Prima Donna could possibly have felt more 
gratified at the repeated encores of a large audience, 
than did Edith at the effect of this" simple ballad 
upon her hearers. Silence reigned even after the 
last note had died away, and was not broken until 
she rose to leave the instrument; and then, Martha 
— the untameable, harum-scarum, wild, wilful Mar- 
tha — threw her arms around Edith’s neck and 
burst into tears, exclaiming, “ I can’t help it. Miss 
Edith, indeed I can’t for I am so sorry that I in- 
tended to be so disagreeable if you wouldn’t let me 
have my own way. When I feel wicked, you will 
sing to me, won’t you !” 

Edith was taken completely by surprise at this 
unexpected reception of her song, and scarcely 
knew how to act. Mr. Ellis, seeing her embar- 
rassment, stepped forward to relieve it, and placing 
his hand on his daughter’s head, he said, smilingly, 
“ Ah, Matty, I knew there was some good in you ; 
I do not despair of your becoming civilized yet.” 
And then turning to Edith, who had been pulled 
back upon the piano-stool by Martha’s weight, and 
who blushed intensely as his eye res^d upon her 


48 


BEECH BLUFF. 


face, lie continued, “ Whose breast 'has mail to 
music proof? not Matty’s certainly. Your ‘ magic 
measures’ seem to have entered her soul, and I hope 
they will have an abiding influence.” 

“It seems to me,” said Edith, “like a flash of 
sunshine dispelling the cloud of doubts and fears 
in which I was enveloped this morning, after listen- 
ing to a portion of Miss Hannah’s experience from 
the young ladies ; I doubted my own strength and 
wisdom to govern rightly, and I feared the school- 
room might witness some unpleasant scenes, but 
Matty’s confession of her hostile intentions and her 
penitence encourages me to believe that we will get 
along most amicably. What do you think, Matty ?” 
said she, raising Martha’s flushed face to her own, 
and imprinting a kiss upon her cheek.. 

“Why, I think I’ll try to be very good.” 

“And when you are bad, honey. Miss Eden can 
punish you by not singing,” interrupted Uncle 
Sigli, who had bowed himself into the room, and 
stood in the most deferential altitude before the 
group at the piano. 

“ Well, Sigh, how did you like the music?” said 
his master. 

“Eery, fine, Massa Jacob, bery fine;” replied the 
old negro, with a succession of bows. “ I tink it 
am sperior to Miss Hannah’s playing wid one hand. 
Howsomever, I would like to ask Miss Eden if she 
can sing any camp meeting hymns, case I tink her 
voice am perticly calkilated ' for dat perticlar style 
ob music.” 

Mr. Ellis igeemed very much inclined to laugh, 


MAGIC MEASURES. 


49 


though he refrained from doing so out of respect to 
the old man’s feelings, who obviously thought he 
had paid Edith a very great compliment. 

“ I play and sing a great deal of sacred music,” 
said Edith, but “ never having attended a camp- 
meeting, I am ignorant of the style you speak of.” 

“Den you is not a Methodist?” 

“ No, I am a Roman Catholic.” 

Evidently disappointed that Edith was not of 
his “pursuasion,” he thanked her — for what she 
did not know — and bowed himself out of the room; 
and a moment after, Aunt Cilia’s voice was heard 
in no very gentle tones, chiding him for his “ indig- 
nity in standing so long ’mong de white folks in de 
big room. I reckon Miss Eden’ll sing agin fore she 
gwines home, but dat rose-bush you dug up and 
Icf in de sun won’t hold up it’s head agin if it dies, 
dat’s sartin to which Uncle Sigh made some re- 
joinder, and w’as answered in a still louder key, 
“ camp-meetings am all bery well in der place, but 
don’t you go to brung ’em in de house for to bodder 
young marster.” 

“Uncle Sigh and Aunt Cilia are both old house 
servants,” said Mr. Ellis, in answer to Edith’s ques- 
tioning look, “and therefore privileged. Aunt 
Cilia was my nurse when I was a child, and though 
^ old marster’ has been dead these ten years, she 
continues to call me ‘young marster, and will do 
so when I am gray, if she live till then. She for- 
gets that I am a few years older than when she 
used to protect me from the mischievous annoyances 
of tlie ‘ little darkies,’ ” 
f) 


50 


BEECH BLUFF. 


“Is she Uncle Sigh’s wife ?” asked Edith. 

“Yes, and she thinks a heap of her old man; but 
the camp-meeting fever he gets occasionally annoys 
her excessively, for she is a member of the Catholic 
Church. But they are good, pious old negroes, both 
of them.’^ 

“ Why are they called ‘ Uncle’ and ‘ Aunt?’ ” 

“ It is a mark of respect to the old negroes on 
the place, as much as the ‘ Miss’ in addressing 
you.” 

“ I am becoming enlightened,” said Edith, laugh- 
ing. “The idea of your, having any respect for 
your slaves is quite a new one to me.” 

“I suppose so,” said Mr. Ellis, good-naturedly; 
“but I hope you will have a better opinion of 
Southern planters when you go home ; I have no 
doubt you will acknowledge yourself a Northerner 
with Southern principles, unless you have come 
here to ‘ make a note’ of the objectionable features 
of slavery for the purpose of writing a book, which 
I very much doubt, for you look too honest.” 

“ Oh, if you are becoming suspicious of me,” said 
Edith, laughing, “ I had better travel home again 
as soon as possible. At all events, I must not ask 
any more questions on the subject. But do I look 
as if I could write a book? one that would settle 
the affairs of the nation ?” 

“Well, not particularly; T have not discovered 
any blue stackings yet,” rejoined Mr. Ellis, jocosely; 
“ but,” he added, more seriously, “ I have no doubt 
you would be as much missed if you were to leave 
us now, though you have been here so short a time, 


MAGIC MEASURES. 


51 


as was Mr. Stillingfleet in his absence from the 
Blue Stocking Club, in the days of. Dr. Johnson. 
How would you like to have Miss Edith run home 
without beginning school I” addressing his daugh- 
ters. 

“Oh, not at all,” said Mary; “she has promised 
to read so many books with me, and besides, Matty 
wouldn’t become civilized.” 

Here the conversation was interrupted by the 
sound of the tea-bell. After tea, Martha, who had 
been unusually quiet during the meal, proposed a 
walk in the garden. 

“ Take your flute along, papa, and play for us, 
please, on the Indian mound.” 

“Bring it from the library, then,” said her father; 
and in a moment it was in his hand, and the two 
girls were running on, leaving their father and 
Edith to follow at their leisure. 

“ There is a remarkable echo on the mound 
Martha mentioned,” said Mr. Ellis, as they pro- 
ceeded slowly down the walk, “ which, when I play 
my flute, has almost the effect of a duet, the players 
situated at a distance from each other. The mound 
is an artificial elevation, supposed to have been 
thrown up by the Indians during the skirmishes in 
the early part of the Ke volution. Whether that 
particular spot was selected to make the echo an- 
swer a ‘ savage’ purpose, I am unable to say, but 
think it very likely. It is a favorite resort of 
Martha’s, who goes there for the purpose of exer- 
cising her lungs, I judge, for I often hear her send- 


52 


BEECH BLUFF. 


ing forth sounds very like an Indian war-whoop, 
which the distant hill faithfully returns.” 

“ What was that ?” asked Edith, starting suddenly, 
as a sound, not unlike the shriek of a locomi^ive, 
fell on her ear, twice in succession, though more 
distant the second time. 

“ It is confirmation strong of what I’ve been tell- 
ing you,” answered her companion, laughing heart- 
ily. “The young lady has reached the mound 
before us.” 

A few more steps brought them in sight of the 
spot; Mary had thrown herself on the grass, while 
Martha, having planted herself directly in the mid- 
dle of the green knowl, was inflating her lungs pre- 
paratory to a repetition of the shriek, when she saw 
her father and Edith approaching ; running down 
to meet them, she exclaimed eagerly, “ I)id you 
hear the echo ? wasn’t it splendid ?” 

Mr. Ellis played several familiar airs, and Edith 
was charmed with both the music and the echo. 

“ I am not surprised at Matty’s fancy for the 
spot,” said she, “for it is certainly very attractive; 
and such a delightful resting-place under the shade 
of this sycamore.” 

As they turned to leave the mound, she remarked 
that the flute was an agreeable accompaniment to 
the piano. 

“ Yes,” said Mr. Ellis, “ I used to accompany Mrs. 
Ellis when she played.” 

“Do the girls play?” asked Edith, thinking that 
she ought to have asked the question in the after- 
noon. 


MAGIC MEASURES. 


53 


“Yery little. Their mother gave them lessons, 
but they never liked to practise, and we did not 
urge them to it, though Martha has a decided talent 
for music, and possesses a fine voice. Miss Hannah 
was not at all musical, and since Mrs. Ellis’s death, 
the piano has seldom been opened.” 

That night Edith laid her head on her pillow in 
thankfulness that her lines had been cast in such a 
pleasant place. Thoughts of home filled her mind ; 
mother, brother, sister, and friendi^ each and all 
claimed their share of remembrance, and thinking 
of them she fell asleep. 


CH APTEE VI. 

CHESTNUT GKOVE. 

The very sooth of it is, that an ill habit has the force of an ill 
fate. — L. Estrange. 

The next day was Saturday, and as Edith had 
been informed that Uncle Anthony was sent to the 
post-office every- Saturday evening, she seated her- 
self in the library directly after breakfast, for the 
purpose of writing letters home. 

“O Miss Edith, Miss Edith !” exclaimed Mary and 
Martha in the same breath — running on to the 
piazza, and throwing open the window-shutter, 
“papa is going to Chestnut Grove instead of Uncle 
Anthony, and he says that we can go along. He is 
going directly after dinner, about four o’clock.” 

“Are you going in the carriage ?” asked Edith. 

“ No ma’am, on horseback.” 

“ But you know I never rode.” 

“ I told papa,” said Martha, “ that you could not 
ride horseback — I mean that you never did ride — 
and he said you could take your first lesson to-day, 
and I am to ride one of the carriage- horses and let 
you have Selim, and Mary is going to ride behind 
papa.” 

“ But I have no skirt,” suggested Edith. 

“Never mind that; nobody’ll see us but Mr. 
Irving and the blacks ; but you might wear mine, 
only it would be a mile too large for your waist, 
and Mary’s is a yard too short for you.” 


CHESTNUT GROVE. 55 

Smiling at the “ mile” and “ yard,” Edith, after 
thinking a moment, said — 

“ Perhaps I can alter the skirt of my traveling- 
dress.” 

“ Is it tucked ?” asked Martha. 

“ Ko,” said Edith ; “ but it has a deep hem, and ' 
is turned in at the top.” 

“ That’ll do first-rate,” said Martha; “I’ll get it, 
and give it to Oak ; sKe'll fix it.” And running up 
stairs she brought the dress down ; and, calling a 
girl who was sewing in the sitting-room, she 
handed it to her, saying — 

“There, Oak, Miss Edith wants you to fix that 
dress for her to ride in.” 

“ Yes, Oak,” said Edith, “ I would like you to 
let down the skirt, if you please.” 

“ Der’s a right smart turned in. Miss Eden, and I 
reckon the hem won’t have to come out,” said the 
girl, examining it. 

“Very well,” returned Edith; “let it down at 
the waist, then, and I guess it will do for this after- 
noon and to-morrow.” 

“ Better keep it for ridin’. Miss Eden, for you 
won’t get anything as purty dis side ’Gusta ; allers 
’mired dark gray. Young missus and Miss Mary 
ort to have some black ’terial for der skirts, for dey 
looks wery funny a ridin’ out wid black bodies and 
green skirts ; but dey don’t know, and Massa Jacob 
don’t neber notice wimrnen’s fixin’s. I reckon I’ll 
ax him to git some dis evenin’ ;” and nodding her 
head with a “ dat’s so,” she disappeared, leaving 
Edith alone. 


56 


BEECH BLUFF. 


The letters were finished before dinner-time, and 
going up to her room, Edith found her dress, fin- 
ished and neatly pressed, lying on the bed. The 
young ladies’ room adjoined hers, and she heard 
Mary expostulating in an earnest tone with her 
sister. 

“Please don’t wear that log cabin, Matty, for you 
look so ugly in it. Wear the white sun-bonnet.” 

“ I’ll do nothing of the kind,” said her sister. 
“The white sun-bonnet is so small it shows all my 
hair.” 

“Well, can’t you comb your hair? You haven’t 
combed it since the last time we went to church, I 
am sure.” 

“ Indeed, I combed it the day papa went to Au- 
gusta for Miss Edith.” 

“ I saw Miss Edith look at your head yesterday,” 
said Mary, “and I reckon she did not think it 
looked very neat.” 

“ I suppose then that she’ll begin at my head to 
civilize me ; but what are you going to wear ?” 

“ My garden-hat.” 

“You look just like a boy in it, with your short 
curls.” 

“ Mamma used to like it, you know, and it is so 
comfortable. But here comes Nelly; won’t you let 
her plait your hair, and tie on the black ribbons ?” 

“No, indeed ; plaiting breaks the hair.” 

“ I don’t think it breaks it half as much as the 
bard knot you leave it tied in,” said Mary. 

“ Come, Miss Matty,” said Nelly, who entered 
just then to assist her young ladies in dressing, 


CHESTNUT GROVE. 57 

“ ’low me to comb up your bar, and ’stonish de 
fo’ks wid a smoove bead.” 

“I’ll ’stonisb you with something else,” said ber 
young mistress, “ if you don’t have my saddle blan- 
ket and riding- skirt ready. And tell Uncle Peter 
to put tbe martingale on Flash, or his bead wifi be 
in my mouth all tbe way, and I don’t like tbe 
flavor.” 

“ What are you going to do with that album, 
Matty ?” asked Mary. 

“ Why, my name has never been written in it 
since papa gave it to me, and I saw Miss Edith’s 
portfolio, and she draws beautifully ; and I’ll just 
ask her — ” 

“O sister!” interrupted Mary; “let me write your 
name in it!” 

“ You ! indeed I’ll not ! Miss Edith ’ll do it with 
a flourish ; she’ll make an elegant parrot or some- 
thing, and write my name on the side of it.” 

“ Where is the post-oflice, Mary ?” asked Edith, 
putting her head in at the door. 

“On the store door,” answered Martha. 

“On the store door?” repeated Edith, interroga- 
tively. 

“ Yes, ma’am; it’s nothing but a letter-box. Mr. 
Irving keeps the store and ’tends to the mail. But 
I declare Mary, if there aren’t the horses! and a 
mule ! And the dinner bell hasn’t rung ! Here, 
you Nellie ! run down and ask Aunt Cilia if she’s 
going to send Josh along on the mule with the 
dinner.” 

“ There’s the bell now,” said Mary. 


58 


BEECH BLUFF. 


“Undo Peter was aforehand wid de beasts, case 
marster gin him half holiday to gwine over to Dud- 
ley’s plantation to see his old ’oman, and I reckon 
he’s in a hurrj^,” said Nelly, as they went into the 
dining-room. 

“Are you timid. Miss Edith?” asked Mr. Ellis, as 
Edith stood on the block ready to mount. 

“ I don’t think I feel particularly courageous, 
but I presume we are not going in a gallop,” an- 
swered Edith, smiling. 

We will not ! Matty will probably disappear as 
soon as she is in her saddle ; but we will ride slowly, 
though you would find it much easier riding if you 
would let Selim strike into a pace, for he is a fine 
pacer,” said Mr. Ellis, as he assisted Edith in the 
saddle. “ Now seat yourself firmly, and take the 
bridle in this hand — between your fingers, so ! Is 
your foot in the stirrup ? No. There, all right so 
far. Here, Peter, lead Selim off a few steps to 
make room for Flash.” 

Seated on her horse, Edith looked around with a 
great degree of interest to see the others mount. Mar- 
tha walked to the block in a manner so stately, 
and so out of character with her dress, that Edith 
laughed in spite of herself. 

The long green skirt trailed on the ground 
behind, while the wearer held it up in front at a 
fashionable height, revealing the hem of her black 
dress, and displaying her well turned ankle in a 
manner that would have done credit to a city belle. 
Her arms and shoulders were shaded by a cape of 
white dimity, reaching to the waist, and tied at the 


CHESTNUT GEO-VE. 


59 


neck with black ribbons. The log-cabin sun -bon- 
net, which had so shocked her sister's pride, was 
of blue herage^ made with casings, into which were 
run pieces of pasteboard, bringing it far over the 
face and most efl'ectually concealing the uncombed 
hair. In her hand she carried a switch, stripped 
of all its leaves, except a few at the end, which 
bobbed about as if nodding in recognition of the 
green skirt. Stepping upon the block, she adjusted 
the saddle-cloth, then, seizing the pommel of the 
saddle, she sprang into her seat with astonishing 
agility, congidering her weight, and without farther 
ceremony than a wave of her hand, and “ I’ll wait 
for you at the Branch,’’ she galloped down the 
lawn and was soon out of sight. Her father looked 
after her a moment, then mounting his own horse 
he rode to the block to take up Mary, who looked 
so exceedingly pretty in her little garden hat with 
its black ribbons, that Edith did not wonder at her 
preference for it though, to be sure, the short curls 
did give her somewhat of a boyish appearance. As 
she gathered up her long skirt with one tiny, white 
hand, Edith thought “What a lovely picture I” 
Seating herself behind her father, she threw one 
arm around him, and, peeping around at Edith, 
she said, with the usual blush, “ This is such a nice 
broad seat.” 

Selim deserved all the enconiums his mistress 
bestowed upon him, for he was indeed a noble ani- 
mal. Edith thought he displayed a great deal of 
sagacity in turning so cautiously, as if aware that 
he was carrying a timid rider, and as he followed 


60 


BEECH BLUFF. 


the slow steps of Uncle Peter down the lawn, she 
felt quite as safe as if she were walking. Holding 
the gate open, Uncle Peter touched his cap respect- 
fully, saying, “Gib Selim de bridle when you get 
to de big road, Miss Edin, and don’t ’tempt to guide 
him, for you might steer wrong, and he knows de 
way.” 

Mr. Ellis smiled, and said to Edith, “ You ought 
to become an accomplished horse-woman, with so 
many to teach you.” 

“ Yes,” said Edith, “ I ought to know something 
about riding ; Matty gave me a lesson.”* And then 
she laughed as she recollected that a part of her 
instructions was to throw her arm around Mr. Ellis 
and hold on to his coat. 

“We must not allow you to contract any bad 
habits in the beginning/’ said Mr. Ellis; “so you 
will permit me to commence at once to correct any 
that I notice. Firstly you bend forward too much ; 
and, secondly, your muscles are too much on the 
strain ; relax them, and 'hold yourself up, for, in 
your present position, if Selim were to stumble, you 
would be thrown over his head without any warn- 
ing. And that would be an ill fate indeed. There, 
that is better !” said he, approvingly, as Edith drew 
back her shoulders and settled herself more com- 
fortably in the saddle. 

“You spoke of Selim being a fine pacer,” said 
Edith. “I must acknowledge my ignorance of the 
term as applied to horses.” 

“Webster will tell you that pacing signifies lift- 
ing the feet on the same side together,” returned 


CHESTNUT GROVE. 


61 


Mr. Ellis. “If you feel inclined to give him — I 
mean Selim, not Webster — a trial, just give your 
bridle a sudden jerk, and he will understand the 
signal.” 

Edith obeyed, and the horses paced along together 
in a manner which she thought much more agreea- 
ble than the tedious walk; and as her timidity 
gradually wore off she began to enjoy the ride. 

“ I hear horse’s feet down the road,” said Mary, 
“ and I reckon Matty is coming back to meet ns. 
Yes, there she is ; I caught a glimpse of her white 
cape.” And, in a moment, Matty galloped up to 
them, and, wheeling her horse, exclaimed — 

“ How dolefully slow you ride. But how nicely 
you sit. Miss Edith! Don’t you think you could 
gallop with me, now ?” 

Edith declined, saying she thought that would 
do for another lesson. 

“I’ve been waiting at the Branch fully ten 
minutes,” said Martha, “and do you know, papa, 
that it is swollen from the rain last week, and we’ll 
have to ford it ?” 

“ What are you going to do, Martha ?” asked 
Edith. 

“Why, let our horses swim across,” answered 
Martha. “ I’ll go in first, and you do just like me ; 
drop your bridle, pull up your skirt, and pick up 
your feet in this way.” And, suiting the action to 
the word, she made a perfect bunch of herself, and 
looked so comical with her feet upon the horse’s 
neck, that the rest of the party laughed aloud. 

The sound of running water notified them that 

*6 


62 


BEECH BLUFF. 


they were near the “ Branch,” and a turn in the 
road brought them to the side of it. “ Come on !” 
said Martha, and her horse plunged in and crossed 
the narrow stream ; laughing, she called from the 
other side, “ Don’t let Selim shake you off, Miss 
Edith, when he comes out !” 

“I stand shivering on the brink and fear to 
launch away,” said Edith to Mr. Ellis, who was 
waiting for her to arrange her skirt. He laughed, 
and, taking the bridle over his arm, said, “Are you 
ready?” — and before she had time to assent or 
object, the horses were bearing them over almost 
without perceptible motion 

“Well,” said Edith, “I feel as if I had performed 
a wonderful feat; something in the ‘grand and lofty ^ 
tumbling’ style.” 

“’Twas first-rater said Martha (that first-rate 
being with her the superlative degree of exellence). 
“You are a heap more sensible than Miss Hannah. 
Why, we never got her ’t’other side of Jordan’ 
while she was at the Bluff.” 

“ Martha !” said her father, sternly. 

And, coloring slightly, she gave the pasteboards 
a sudden jerk over her face, saying : “ I’ll meet you 
at the store.” Waving her switch in a majestic 
manner, she brought it down on her horse’s neck, 
and the log-cabin and green skirt were again in 
rapid motion. 

The “ store” was a low wooden building with a 
porch in front, but without any sign over the door 
or display of goods in the windows to indicate that 
it was a place of business. The broken panes of 


CHESTNUT GROVE. 


63 


glass and tumble-down fence gave tbe whole place 
a dilapidated appearance, and Edith thought the 
grove at the back of the house looked far more in- 
viting than the crazy looking porch in which were 
sitting several men, all of whom arose and disap- 
peared in the dark looking door when our party ap- 
proached. 

“ Where’s Matty ? There’s Flash with her skirt 
on the saddle,” said Mary. 

“Gone round to see Janett, Miss Mary,^ said a 
gentleman, stepping from the porch. Then, saluting, 
Mr. Ellis with a nod and “ How do, Ellis ?” he gave 
Edith an inquisitive look ; and, at Mr Ellis’s intro- 
duction, “ Mr. Irving, Miss Stanford,” bowed quite 
low, and lifting his head with a jerk, said : Happy 
to make your ’quaintance, ma’am. Eight smart 
rain last week. ’Sist you to ’light ma’am ?” Edith 
extended her hand ; and grasping it in a business- 
like manner, he almost pulled her off the block ; 
then, wheeling around so suddenly as to make the 
horse start, he addressed himself to Mr., Ellis : 
“ Horses want water, Ellis ? Yes ? Here, you Jack, 
take horses to creek” — abbreviating his words and 
sentences as if life were too short to allow the use 
of pronouns and articles, and there was an absolute 
necessity for abridging all other words. 

“ What’ll look at, Ellis?” said Mr. Irving, as they 
stood beside the counter in the not very cleanly 
looking store. 

“ I believe the young ladies wish some black ma- 
terial for riding skirts.” 

“ Nice alapacas; nothing else to show. Best in 


64 


BEECH BLUFF. 


the ’ouse,” replied Mr. Irving, elevating his eye- 
brows and striking the counter at every exclama- 
tion.” 

“ That will do, Mr. Irving,” said Martha, thrust- 
ing her pasteboards in a window near him. “ Please 
cut off twelve yards, and don’t forget the sewing- 
silk. 

“Letters for you, Ellis, top the pile. Yes, Miss 
Matty, twelve yards.” 

Walking to a desk behind the door, Mr. Ellis 
took up the letters, and looking them over, put three 
in his pocket. Edith looked at them wistfully, but 
said to herself: “It is to soon ; I’ll not receive any 
for a week;” then, taking those she had written out 
of her pocket, she was about to hand them to Mr. 
Ellis, when Mary stepped to the door, and lifting 
the lid of a small wooden box that was nailed to it 
on the inside, she said, with a look of sly humor: 
“Put them in the office, Miss Edith.” 

The purchases were made, and stowed away in a 
small carpet-sack which was hung on the pommel of 
Martha’s saddle. Edith was glad when they >vere 
once more in the fresh air, for the smell of tobacco 
which proceeded from a corner where the occupants 
of the porch had stationed themselves, affected her 
very unpleasantly. Crossing the yard, they were 
followed closely by Mr. Irving, who led Selim to 
the block himself; and while Edith put on her 
skirt he worked his fingers nervously, and the mo- 
ment it was fastened, seized her hand, and with a 
jerk of his head, said, “ Sist you to mount ma’am?” 
She had barely time to settle herself in the saddle, 


CHESTNUT GROVE. 


65 


and before her foot was in the stirrup, he grasped 
the bridle, and leading the horse off a few paces, 
stood, holding him by the bit, until the others were 
ready to start, when he let go with a flourish of his 
arm, and started back as if he expected Selim to go 
off like a rocket. As Edith bowed, in acknowledg- 
ment of his services, his manner and attitude re- 
minded her forcibly of the ring master in a travel- 
ing circus she had visited when a child. 

Tea was ready and waiting when they reached 
home, and they seated themselves around the table 
with spirits exhilarated, and appetites considerably 
sharpened by the ride. Mr. Ellis was particularly 
merry and agreeable, and Edith thought his ani- 
mated countenance gave him quite a youthful ap- 
pearance, and he looked scarcely old enough to be 
the father of those two tall girls. Lifting her plate, 
she passed it to him without looking down, until 
the girls both exclaimed, “ Look under your plate. 
Miss Edith, under your plate!” She colored with 
surprise and pleasure as she took up a letter, and, 
looking at Mr. Ellis suspiciously, said, “ Where did 
this come from ? It must have been written the 
day after I left home.” He laughed heartily, as if 
he enjoyed her surprise, and said, “ You must ex- 
cuse me for not handing it to you before, but I knew 
you would like to be alone when you read it, and I 
feared your anxiety to learn the contents would pre- 
vent your enjoying the ride home.” 

Immediately after tea, Edith went to her room. 
“Dear Gracy,” said she, unfolding her letter, “I 
would know your graceful handwriting among a 


66 


BEECH BLUFF. 


score of others,” And then she read how poor 
Grace, sad, lonely, and out of sorts, had gone to her 
sister’s room the evening after her departure, and, 
after a fit of weeping, had concluded to write and 
tell her that George was very grura, mamma terri- 
bl}^ low-spirited, and the whole house so desolate 
that it was quite unbearable. Then came a long 
string of fond wishes for dear Edie’s happiness, fol- 
lowed by as many resolutions to look upon the 
bright side of life — and the letter closed with a 
quotation, beginning, “Away with melancholy,” 
and many assurances of sisterly affection. “Bless 
her dear heart,” said Edith, returning it to the 
envelope. “ I hope the next letter will be a more 
cheerful one;” and though she felt grieved at the 
sadness of her mother and her brother’s grumness, 
which she knew so well how to interpret, she was 
happy at having heard from the dear ones at 
home. 


CHAPTER YII. 


SABBATH IN THE COUNTRY. ' 

The heaven, the air, the earth, and boundless sea 
Make but one temple for the Deity. — Waller. 

Hine o’clock the following morning found Mr. 
Ellis and his family starting on their Sabbath day’s 
journey. It was an extremely warm September 
day, but the breeze from the river whose shining 
waters were visible through the trees, and the 
shaded path which they traveled, prevented them 
from feeling the heat very sensibly. They went at 
a moderate pace, befitting the holiness of the day, 
but, as the horses could not go abreast, there was 
no opportunity for conversation. The path was a 
crooked one, and every turn brought to their view 
others traveling the same narrow road; and as 
Edith watched them “on their winding way,” she 
thought, if they were spending the time in serious 
meditation, their minds must be well prepared to 
enter upon the worship of God in spirit and in 
truth. 

The air was filled with the song of birds, and 
their notes had never seemed to her so prolonged or 
so melodious, and as she listened to the sweet music, 
it conveyed to her mind the meaning of “linked 
sweetness long drawn out.” She was one eminently 
calculated to enjoy such sights and sounds as greeted 
her eye an'd ear, for everything in Nature had a 
charm for her. From the tiny, half-hidden spring 


68 


BEECH BLUFF. 


flower, to tlie majestic plants and towering trees ; 
the timid, feeble sparrow flying low to the earth, 
and the bold eagle skimming the blue ether ; the 
rocks, over which dash the roaring cataracts, and 
the smooth pebble, washed by the rippling stream ; 
each read to her its own peculiar lesson, and this 
quiet Sabbath morning, as she rode slowly through 
those grand old woods, drinking in the music of birds 
and perfume of flowers, she wondered that any per- 
son endowed with sight and hearing could disbe- 
lieve in “ God the Father Almighty.” 

The church was set on a hill” in the woods, and 
was a rude building, with a door at each side, but 
without windows ; there was an open space in front, 
and adjoining it at the back a temporary shelter had 
been erected for the accommodation of unusually 
large congregations, in hot weather. As they ap- 
proached it, Edith thought the whole place had 
more the appearance of a gypsy-camp than a place 
of worship. Horses were standing under the trees, 
and on the branches above them were hung differ - 
ent colored saddle-blankets and riding-skirts, and 
on the grass lolled negro men and woman, dressed 
in gay holiday attire, and little black children, with 
their heads tied up in yellow bandannas, scampered 
about almost under the horses’ feet. 

Parties were approaching from every direction, 
and at each fresh arrival, servants recognizing their 
master’s family, jumped from the grass and stationed 
themselves at the horses’ heads, while gentlemen 
stepped from the group assembled at the door, and 
assisted the ladies to dismount. 


SABBATH IN THE COUNTRY. 69 

Uncle Sigh, Uncle Peter, and Josh took hold of 
the bridles when the horses Jialted, and ISTellie and 
Oak stood ready to take the riding-skirts. A gen- 
tleman standing a little apart from the group before 
the church wheeled suddenly and started towards 
our party, and before he reached them Edith re- 
cognized Mr. Irving. ‘AVhat a nuisance!’' she in- 
voluntarily exclaimed. Mr. Ellis caught the ex- 
pression, and speaking quickly to Uncle Sigh, said, 
“Take Miss Mary off so that I can dismount;” but 
before that could be accomplished, Mr. Irving had 
hold of Edith’s hand, and was dragging her from 
the saddle in the most awkward manner. There 
was no block to step on, and as she attempted to 
spring to the ground, her foot caught in her skirt, 
and she fell forward, and was clasped in Mr. Ir- 
ving’s long arms; before she could recover her 
balance, he released her suddenly, and started back, 
and she fell headlong to the ground. Her feet were 
so entangled in her skirt that it was with difficulty 
she arose, even with Mr.- Ellis’s assistance, and then 
he was obliged to support her while Nellie pulled 
her skirt from under her feet. She could have 
cried with vexation, and the hot blood mounted to 
her face as she saw the author of the mischief walk 
rapidly towards the church as if he expected chas- 
tisement if he lingered. She did not wonder at his 
abrupt departure, when, glancing at Mr. Ellis’s 
face, she saw the angry flush on his brow, and the 
indignant flash of his eye as it followed the retreat- 
ing figure of the discomfited merchant. It was no 
longer the calm, deliberate gentleman, with gentle. 


TO 


BEECH BLUFF. 


winning manners, who stood before her, but the 
impulsive passionate man ; and as he almost hissed 
out “Dolt! blockhead! idiot!” she thoaght he dis- 
played rather more anger than the occasion war- 
ranted, since Mr Irving’s intentions had been kind ; 
her own resentment subsided, and she said in a 
pleasant tone — 

“It was mostly my own fault, Mr. Ellis; you 
know I am not accustomed to such long skirts.” 

“Nor such long arms either, I imagine !” he re- 
plied, his eyes still flashing. Her face became 
scarlet. “But I have not inquired if you are 
hurt?” 

“I believe T have sustained no injury,” said she, 
brushing some dirt from her sleeve. The words 
were scarcely out before she uttered an exclamation, 
as if attacked by sudden pain. 

“ What’s the matter, Miss Edith ?” said Mary. 

“A pain in my ankle,” said she, limping, as 
she attempted to walk ; “ I must have turned it ; 
but it’s nothing of consequence, I fancy,” and drop- 
ping her veil, she signified that she was ready to 
proceed to the church. 

“ You are sure it is not sprained?” said Mr. Ellis, 
with extreme solicitude. 

“0 no ; the pain has gone already,” she returned, 
smiling; and they walked on, but the compression 
of her lips, every time she stepped with the right 
foot, told that she was suffering, though she would 
not acknowledge that it was anything but “ slight, 
very slight pain.’’ 

The church was filled and mass had commenced 


SABBATH m THE COUNTRY. 71 

when they entered. Edith and the two girls sat 
down near the door, and Mr. Ellis crossed the room, 
and seated himself opposite* to them. 

At the close of the mass Edith requested the 
girls to remain in their seats a few moments, for she 
tiiought she should certainly fall if she attempted 
to go out with the crowd ; but she almost regretted 
having done so, for so many of their friends stopped 
to speak with them, and to inquire if their teacher 
was hurt when she fell from her horse. Mr. Ellis 
joined them as soon as possible, and, introducing 
“ Father Ward,” immediately inquired if she still 
felt the pain.” 

“Yes, I feel it most acutely at present,” she re- 
plied, “ and I fear it is rdore serious than I at first 
apprehended.” 

“Will you allow me to look at it? I am the 
surgeon on my plantation,” he said, with a grave 
smile. 

She lifted her foot without hesitation, and placed 
it on the bench before her. He examined, it and 
said, with a troubled look .• “ It is, indeed an ugly 
sprain. Your boot must come off, and a handker- 
chief must be bound tightly around your foot.” 
Taking a penknife from his pocket, he slit the 
gaiter down on the out-side and drew it off as gently 
as possible ; though Edith did not shrink or groan 
her pale face, and white compressed lips, betrayed 
how much she suffered. Mr. Ellis bound his own 
handkerchief tightly around the swollen member, 
while Martha called Oak and desired her to fetch a 


BEECH BLUFF. 


72 

glass of water, and Mary stood looking on with tlie 
most distressed face imaginable. 

“Do you think you can sit on your horse?” 
asked Mr. Ellis taking the glass from Oak and hand- 
ing it to Edith. 

“Yes, I think so,” she ^replied, tho’ her voice 
faltered “ but can not we go into that back building ? 
I don’t like this confusion, right here, in the very 
Presence.” 

At that moment Father Ward entered, and to 
him Mr. Ellis communicated Edith’s scruples. “Make 
yourself easy on that point my child, the Blessed 
Sacrament is removed; fortunately (turning to Mr. 
Ellis) Mr. Irving has his gig here and offers it to 
you, and will ride your horse home ; you had better 
take it, for Miss Stanford will never reach home on 
horseback with that swollen foot, my word for it, 
she’ll faint as sure as you’re born. 

“ There ! you see how kind he is for all — he is 
only unfortunate in being a little awkward,” said 
Edith exultingly to Mr. Ellis. 

“ True, but I have so little patience wuth his 
officious awkwardness — However I accept the offer of 
his gig most gratefully.” And the cloud disappeared 
from his brow, which had gathered there at the 
mention of Irving’s name, “But Mr. Ward you’ll 
have to take charge of my daughters.” 

“ I’ll do that with pleasure ; we’ll take the bridle 
path and meet you at the bridge.” 

“Scarcely, I think,’’ said Mr. Ellis smilin o, ‘‘as 
I’m not going that way.” 

“Not by the road, certainly,” said Father Ward 


SABBATH IN' THE COUNTRY. 


73 


in surprise, “Why it’s one o’clock and the sun is 
powerful hot, she’ll faint so sure — ” The last of 
the sentence was lost, as he disappeared out of the 
door in search of Mr. Irving to convey to him the 
expression of Mr. Ellis’ thanks, and acceptance of 
his vehicle. 

Edith looked after him and smiled in spite of her 
suffering. 

“ What a joyous spirit he seems to possess.” 

“ He does indeed ; if ever anj^ one ‘ served the 
Lord in joy and gladness,’ he does. His manners 
are rather abrupt and unpolished, but he is one of 
the most effective, earnest preachers I have ever 
listened to. Some of my Protestant friends, who 
have no church privileges of their own, nearer 
than Augusta, make it a point always to come here 
on the regular Sunday for mass, principally because 
Mr. Ward is well-known and popular, and Protes- 
tants in this section are not prejudiced. I have seen 
those whom T knew to listen with the most stoical 
indifference to the more studied sermons of their 
own grave ministers, sit in wrapt attention, and be- 
tray very visible emotion during his lectures, or 
mission sermons ; when, after a stirring appeal to 
the impenitent or lukewarm, he has modulated his 
voice, and echoed in most winning tones the Sa- 
viour’s promises of pardon and love, I have been 
reminded of Paul in his tempestuous journey to 
Eome “ who when all hope that they should be 
saved was taken away,” stood forth in the midst of 
his trembling companions and said, “I exhort you 

7 


74 


BEECH BLUFF. 


to be of good cheer ; for I believe God it shall so be 
even as it has been told me.” 

Mr. Ellis was walking slowly up and down before 
Edith, waiting for the horses to be brought to the 
door, and while he spoke, his usually grave face 
wore an almost sad expression, as if other thoughts 
had been suggested to his mind ; and it was even so, 
as Edith afterwards learned. 

“ De gig am ready, massa,’^ said Uncle Peter, 
stepping to the door, with his hat off, “ Misser 
Irving took your boss, and gwined home; but 
Misser War’ kep de saddle-blanket for to make a 
pillar for Miss Eden’s foot.” 

“I am obliged to Father Ward for his thought- 
fulness,” said Edith, witn a grateful smile. “ The 
blanket, with my riding-skirt, will support my foot 
nicely.” 

“ Drive the gig to the door, Peter,” said his master, 
“and tell Sigh to have Selim ready for Miss Martha. 
Oak will ride Miss Edith’s horse, unless you wish 
to ride in the saddle, Mary” — turning to his daugh- 
ter, who stood beside Edith. 

“ I would rather ride behind Matty,” she answered, 
with a doubtful glance towards her sister.- 

“ Indeed, Mary, it is entirely too warm ! I’d as 
soon be a pedler at once, and carry a pack on my 
back ! If you can’t be sensible, and ride Flash, you’ll 
have to ride behind Mr. Ward,” Seeing Mary’s look 
of distress, she turned to Edith with a merry 
twinkle in her eye, and added, qqUo voce^ “ She’ll 
faint, as sure as youTe born.” 


SABBATH IN THE COUNTRY. 75 

“Pll ride Flash, I reckon,” said Mary to her 
father, seeing no alternative. 

“Very well,” he answered ; “but mind and keep 
him in the path. Don’t drop your bridle,” said he, 
with a meaning smile, as he went out to the gig, 
which at that moment appeared before the door. 

“ Are you afraid to ride by yourself?” asked 
Edith of Mary, 

“ O no !” she answered, laughing, as if she thought 
it quite ridiculous to be afraid. 

“It’s just laziness, Miss Edith and nothing else,” 
said Martha. “ Papa told her not to drop her bridle, 
because the last time she rode Flash she dropped it, 
and let him go into the woods, and when we looked 
around she was away off behind some trees.” 

“ I was not lazy,” Mary said in a gentle voice, but 
coloring; “ I only forgot where I was. I was try- 
ing to repeat some of the ‘Lady of the Lake’, and 
shut my eyes; and before I knew it Flash was out 
of the path.” 

“Yes, and a nice ‘Lady of the Lake,’ you’d 
have been if be had gone to the Branch,” said 
Martha. 

“Now, Miss Edith, we must lift you into the 
gig,” said Mr. Ellis, coming in. “You are getting 
a little better color. Is your ankle easier?” 

“Yes, in this position,” she replied, with a dis- 
tressed look, as if she dreaded to have it moved. 

“ I am sorry to disturb it ; but trust me ! I’ll lift 
you as gently as possible. You do not look very 
heavy” — glancing at her slight figure, and smiling. 
“ I think I can convey you to the gig without much 


76 


BEECH BLUFF. 


difficulty.” And, taking her in his strong arms, he 
carried her out with as much ease as if she had 
been a child. The color fled from her face, leaving 
it almost marble-white, and when he placed her on 
the seat of the gig, such a look of suffering was 
depicted there that Marj/- exclaimed, with the tears 
running down her cheeks, “Oh, papa ! isn’t it dread- 
ful V' Many persons came forward with offers of 
assistance and expressions of sympathy, while 
others stood apart, watching the proceedings with 
interest. Poor Edith! she was not conscious of 
anything but the throbbing, excruciating pain in 
her foot and ankle, and only heard Mr. Ellis give 
some directions to Uncle Sigh about the young 
ladies’ horses, and had a vague sort of feeling that 
he was adjusting the articles under her foot, and 
raising it by placing something underneath ; then 
the top of the gig was pulled over, and Mr. Ellis 
seated himself beside her, and they slowly rolled 
away. No words were exchanged until the jolting, 
unsteady motion had ceased, and they were moving 
rapidly over a smooth road. 

“How does your foot feel now?” asked Mr. Ellis. 

“Somewhat easier, though still very painful,” re- 
plied Edith. And then, with a faint smile, she 
added: “ My attention is divided between my foot 
and head ; the one seems striving to outpain the 
other.” 

“ Perhaps, if you were to take off your bonnet, 
your head would be somewhat relieved of the pain ; 
you have had it on since morning,” said Mr. Ellis, 
kindly. 


SABBATH IN’ THE COUNTRY. 


77 


Editli untied the strings, and removed the heavy 
straw bonnet; and, with womanly thoughtfulness, 
her companion loosened the veil, and, throwing it 
over her head, said it would be a protection from 
the dust. 

‘‘ What time is it?” asked Edith. 

Looking at his watch, Mr. Ellis replied that it 
was two o’clock. “We shall reach home about 
three,” said he. And then, pointing towards the 
west with his whip, he said: “The Bluff lies in 
that direction. We seem to be leaving it, but in 
order to reach home by this road we are obliged to 
go three miles in this direction ; then the road 
forks, and brings us on to the one leading to the 
Bluff.” 

“Father Ward mentioned a road by the bridge. 
Is that a shorter route than this?” asked Edith, 
striving to keep up the conversation. 

“ Yes, and much more shady” replied Mr. Ellis, 
“which was probably the reason that Mr. Ward 
was so surprised at my not taking it; but it is 
hardly fit to travel in a covered vehicle, as in many 
places the branches hang low, and interrupt the 
way ; and it is very rough, which is another objec- 
tion, as the jolting would have been intolerable to 
you.” 

“ I suppose the girls will arrive home before us,’^ 
said Edith, after a pause. 

“ Yes ; half an hour or so,” returned Mr. Ellis. 

“ I regret this accident so much on their account ; 
it is so unfortunate, for I suppose I’ll not be able to 
enter the school room for a week,” she said, in a 


78 


BEECH BLUFF. 


despondent tone. And then, as if a happy thought 
had relieved her mind of a load of anxiety, she 
added, with a brighter look : “ But that need not 
prevent their studying, for I can attend to them in 
my room ; they can bring their books there.’’ 

“As many books from the library as you please 
to order,” said Mr. Ellis, with a pleasant smile, 
“but none from the school-room. You are to be 
my pupil for a fortnight or thereabouts, and learn 
resignation ; I fear you are lacking in that cardinal 
virtue.” 

“A fortnight !” exclaimed Edith in dismay. 
“ This will certainly not confine me to my room a 
fortnight.” 

“Not necessarily to your room; you can be car- 
ried to any part of the house you choose ; but I fear 
yau will not be able to use your foot for some time, 
as the delay that has occurred in applying the pro- 
per remedies will undoubtedly aggravate the swel- 
ling and inflammation. ‘ But I exhor^ you to be 
of good cheer,’ ” said Mr. Ellis, turning to her with 
a quiet smile, as he repeated the words of scripture 
he had before quoted, in speaking of Father Ward. 
This led Edith’s thoughts into another channel, and 
she asked if there were many Catholics among the 
black people at the- Bluff. 

“Yes,” replied her companion. “Mr. Ward has 
made several converts among* my people, and is 
always welcomed even by the most lawless of them, 
and listened to with the n^ost profound attention.” 

“He is one, I judge, calculated to make an im- 
pression on the negro mind,” said Edith, and con- 


• % 


SABBATH IN THE COUNTRY. 79 

tinued, “he strikes me as being not remarkably 
profound, and yet posessing, if I may so call it, a 
sort of magnetism by which he gains an influence 
where profound reasoning would be unappreciated, 
wholly lost.” 

“You have penetration, I perceive,” returned Mr. 
Ellis, smiling approvingly. 

“Not in a remarkable degree, I think; but in 
going back to the sermon of to-day, I remember 
very little of it, save the Beatitudes which he re- 
peated, and yet every word inspired me with the deep- 
est devotion in spite of my throbbing, paining ankle, 
and I felt that I could give up every thing and con- 
secrate myself wholly to the service of our blessed 
Lord.” 

“ And there are few of his audience who do not 
feel the same,” returned Mr. Ellis, “ and I think the 
operative cause is his own earnestness, and ardor — 
and love. Love not only to God but to the whole 
human family. The.sway he obtains over his con- 
gregation is to me a sort of electrical phemomena 
which I unfold thus. Every word he utters comes 
from his heart of hearts, and is heavy with the 
weight of his own passionate zeal, his burning love 
for souls ; something of this holy fire is communi- 
cated to his hearers; each individual soul feels itself 
to be the particular one he is striving to gain for 

heaven and becomes inflamed with a desire to 

merit the great efforts, perhaps sacrifices, it doubts 
not he would make to ensuue its salvation; naturally 
the mind is led to a contemplation of the great 
love — the cruel agony and bitter passion, of its Irue 

: f 


80 


BEECH BLUFF. 


Saviour, whose sufferings on the cross were endured 
to ransom that same listening soul, which is seized 
with extreme contrition for its unworthiness, desire 
for holiness and a sense of disgust for whatever in 
life serves to draw it from the direct way to the 
possession and enjoyment of His divine favor. 
Thus, where men of deep erudition, great powers of 
reasoning would have preached to weary brains and 
dull ears, Mr. Ward, by the power of his eager, 
loving, tender nature, his Christ-like yearning for 
souls, holds the brain, and ear, and heart enthralled 
as if by a spell.” 

“ You surprise me, not being a Catholic.” 

“ As far as Confirmation and Baptism in the Epis- 
copal church go, I am an Episcopalian, though I 
have been so long removed from, I might say, con- 
tact with the Church, that I don’t suppose I am en* 
titled to the name; this section is principally settled 
by Methodists and Baptists, the latter being divided 
into free-will and close-communionists. Their mode 
of worship never had any attraction for me, and 
until the -building erected for the accommodation of 
the few Catholics hereabouts offered something bet- 
ter in the way of sermons, Mrs. Ellis and I passed 
our Sundays at home.” 

“ I think Martha said that her mother was a 
Roman Catholic.” 

“ She became one, just before her death, and 
though there are many things I cannot subscribe to 
in your religion, yet I owe Mr. Ward a debt of 
gratitude for converting my wife, since she received 
such comfort and consolation from the sacraments. 


SABBATH IN THE COUNTRY. 81 

The children were baptized at their mother’s death- 
bed ; it was her last request.” 

“It must have grieved her to see you without 
the pale Edith ventured to say. 

“Hot in the least; she had perfect faith in God’s 
grace, only asking that I should give the subject 
my attention, and I have ; but the gift of faith is 
witliheld. If it be good for me why is it not 
bestowed ?” 

“ It cannot fail to come, when your disposition to 
receive it is so good,” rejoined ' Edith with a look 
of confidence. 

“I have been somewhat surprised that Mr. Ward 
has never approached me on the subject.” 

“The church never forces itself,” replied Edith. ^ 
“Father Ward is waiting for the broaching to 
come from you, and in the meantime is giving you 
both prayers and masses, I doubt not.” 

“ Prayers and masses have not been wanting, and 
in the very holy sepulchre my name has been 
uttered. I am not uninformed, for I have read 
much. I admire the complete unity and harmony 
in the Catholic church, and lament the want of it 
in the Episcopal ; this has, perhaps, more than 
anything else, alienated me from the church of my 
fathers, in which the chief cause of dispute and 
separation has been the sacraments. First the 
storm of controversy chiefly raged around the doc- 
trine of the Lord s supper, some contending for the 
old Church of Kome view of the communion, and 
others protesting against its use in any Kornish 
sense. Finally, it was fixed at a Protestant stan- 


82 


BEECH BLUFF. 


dard, then the contest became hot over the Baptis- 
mal service. The ablest writers of the Anglican 
church interpreted it in contradictory senses, espe- 
cially the article on Justification. Then comes the 
question of Eegeneration, and it was found that in 
the Baptismal service for infants lay the whole 
error; a most discreditable misunderstanding as to 
the true meaning of this service as laid down in the 
Prayer-book deranged their whole theology, and 
totally obscured the way of salvation. A great 
number of theories have been propounded, and each 
contended for as the true theory, and the only true 
one, to the great scandal and amazement of all the 
others; and so they have gone on disputing over 
the sacraments until peace is a stranger to the 
church, and the disputants are lost in a fog through 
which they can scarcely see each other. The aim 
of the one party seems to be to reject every thing 
possible to be interpreted in a Eomish sense, no 
matter how much its truth may appeal to their 
reasoning or belief, and in its antipathy to the 
Catholic Church to remove itself as far from it as 
possible by a revision of the prayer book, the 
Eomish origin of which makes it particularly 
offensive, though it has come down to them from 
the first spiritual heads of their church ; Queen 
Elizabeth for one, whom now, ingrates that they 
are, they denounce as an “ arbitrary and unregener- 
ate Queen” a half -reformed and wilful woman.” 
The other party having great faith in fat salaries, 
good “ livings” and clerical domestic bliss, yet en- 
tertains a lively interest, we might say faith in the 


SABBATH IN THE COUNTRY. 83 

efficacy of “ Eomish practices,” and therefore while 
with the one hand it clings to the benefices and privi- 
leges of the Protestant church, endeavors to keep 
near enough to Eorne to hold on (excuse me, no 
disrespect is meant) to its coat-skirts with the 
other ” 

Edith laughed heartily, saying that she could not 
understand that he should call himself an Episco- 
palian at all. 

“ Theri? are many Episcopalians, far better than 
I, whose religious convictions and experiences find 
expression in the thirty-nine Articles, and in the 
offices as interpreted in harmony with the articles, 
who are equally with myself disgusted with the 
inharmonious wrangling which promises to be trans- 
mitted from generation to generation,’^ returned Mr. 
Ellis. 

“ I am so much interested to know how Mrs. Ellis’ 
conversion was brought about,” said Edith after a 
pause. 

“ I may say it was brought about by the illness 
and death of Aunt Cilia’s little boy. Aunt Cilia had 
become a convert under Mr. Ward’s preaching, at a 
mission that took place just after the little Church 
was opened ; her child was taken ill soon after, and 
she begged permission to send for Mr. Ward who 
was in the neighborhood at that time, to come and 
baptize the boy ; Mrs. Ellis was in delicate health, 
and had been much depressed in spirits ; Mr. Ward 
was necessitated to remain over night, and we all, 
but Mrs. Ellis in particular, found him most agree- 
able and entertaining. He seemed to communicate* 


84 


BEECH BLUFF. 


something of his own joyousness to us, and the eve- 
ning passed delightfully ; the following morning 
Mrs. Ellis drew him into a conversation on religion, 
during which she laughingly, but very frankly said 
that she had always experienced a desire for sacra- 
mental confession ; she supposed she could confess to 
me or to Uncle Sigh, but that would not be ortho- 
dox, she added in a jesting way. Before he left 
she asked him if he would not furnish her with 
some books when he came again, taking it for gran- 
ted that he would repeat his visit. She excused the 
request by saying that she was ashamed of her ignor- 
ance on Catholic doctrines when he seemed so per- 
fectly informed on those of the different Protestant 
denominations ; she really wanted to be enlightened. 
I could see that notwithstanding her half joking 
manner she was quite serious, and as his visit seemed 
to afford her so much pleasure, I urged him to re- 
peat it. He did so, and often. Frequently when 
reading the Catholic works he supplied her with, 
she would exclaim “ Why Jacob the views given 
here are precisely those I have held for a long time, 
only I did not know they were Catholic ; I have 
been accusing myself of being heterodox in hold- 
ing opinions contrary to my early teachings, but I 
find I am strictly orthodox after all — Here they 
are laid down as Catholic doctrine : neither you or 
I knew you had a papist wife, did we T' This would 
all be said in a light bantering way, but I saw she 
was more cheerful; with every visit of Mr. Ward, 
the depression seemed to be removed in a great de- 
'gree, and at length she told me with the greatest 


SABBATH IN THE COUNTRY. 


85 


apparant happiness that she was really and truly 
a Catholic, and desired to be received into the church. 
The following Sunday was Mr. Ward’s regular 
visitation, and she was baptised before Mass. 
The next day was the Feast of the Assumption, 
and Mr. Ward remained and celebrated the feast 
for the first time in the new church. My wife went 
to communion, and I may truly say, that I never 
saw such an expression of perfect peace and happi- 
ness as her face wore when she returned from the 
altar — I would give much to possess what her 
countenance expressed. Eeturning home she re- 
marked to me that her happiness would have been 
complete had I knelt beside her at the altar — “ To 
think of my long indifference, my mental, no spirit- 
ual indolence! I think, husband, that I should 
have been a better wife had I been a Catholic;’^ 
then she alluded most feelingly to some of her little 
infirmities, such as irritability which had arisen 
entirely from the ill state of her health. While 
she was speaking her*horse stumbled, and being a 
careless rider she slipped from the saddle and fell to 
the ground, her foot remaining in the stirrup, and 
her head striking against a stone. Mr. Ward, who 
was returning with us, assisted me in raising her, 
and brought water from a brook near at hand, with 
which we bathed her head, and, after binding up 
the wound, which was the only external injury she 
received, save a slight bruise on her shoulder, she 
was able to sit on her horse, and proceed home. 
Two days after, she was taken suddenly violently 
ill, and died in a few hours.” 

8 


86 


BEECH BLUFF. 


This had all been said in a manner very quiet 
and deliberate, but there was an inexpressible sad- 
ness in his tone, and on his face there was that look 
of melancholy which in his gay moments Edith 
had noticed suddenly settle over it, chasing away the 
brightness which a moment before had lent an ad- 
ditional charm to his strikingly handsome counten- 
ance. 

Edith made no remark, for, though interesting to 
her, she did not wish to continue a subject evidently 
painful to her companion. After a moment’s silence, 
however, he continued, as if thinking aloud. “A 
singular coincidence! Ten months ago to-day she 
met with the accident.’’ A pause ; and then, as if 
the events separated by an interval of ten months 
were associated together in his mind, he looked at 
Edith, and said: “But yours is slight compara- 
tively.” 

“Nothing at all!” she rejoined, quickly, with a 
perceptible shudder, as the thought passed through 
her mind that it might have been fatal. 

He noticed the shudder; and, divining the cause, 
he changed the subject by asking, “Did you enjoy 
the ride to church, Miss Edith ?” 

“ Yery much,” she replied ; “ it was such a lovely 
morning!” Then, glancing at her foot propped up 
before her, she said, with a sigh : “life is like an 
April day — clouds and sunshine !” 

“Yes, it is so with every one,” said her companion ; 
“ and it is well that we have the contrast of shade 
occasionally, for the sun would lose half its genial 
warmth, and its benign influence would not be ap- 


SABBATH IN THE COUNTRY* 87 

predated, if we were to bask in its light con tin n- 
ally.” 

“ True, but I would not like a similar shadow,” 
nodding towards her foot, “ to fall across my path 
frequently.” 

“ It would not be very agreeable, certainly,” re- 
turned Mr. Ellis. 

There was silence for some time. At length Mr. 
Ellis pointed toward what seemed to Edith a grove, 
and said, “ Do you see the house yonder, through 
* the trees ? We will be there presently ;” and touch- 
ing the horse with his whip, they rode on a little 
faster. 

Uncle Anthony and Sigh met the gig at the gate 
and followed it up the lawn. Martha, Mary, and 
Mr. Ward stood on the piazza, and at the sound of 
wheels Aunt Cilia and the other house-servants 
came running out, all with anxious faces; but on 
the old housekeeper’s countenance there was a dis- 
mal, funereal expression, as if she were watching 
the approach of a funeral cortege. 

“ Leave me take her out, Massa !” she said, as 
soon as Mr. Ellis threw the reins to Uncle Peter. 
“Poor chile! Better be took right up stars and 
put to bed. What for you do dat any way ?” she 
exclaimed, turning to Edith with a look of mingled 
sorrow and vexation. 

“ I’ll carry Miss Edith up stairs. Is her room 
ready? Stand one side. Cilia.” 

“Yes, Massa, and a big dish ob lye to souse her 
foot in. De bery bes’ ting in the worl’ ft5r sprain. 
Tried it once when you’s away from hum, Massa, 


88 


BEECH BLUFF. 


when my ole man sprain him ankle, and was laid 
up for four weeks wid de ’flamation.” 

“I judge that Miss Stanford would be laid up 
fully that length of time under similar treatment,” 
said Mr. Ward, with perfect gravity ; “ but I think 
your master will use cold water applications.” 

“Cole water, Misser War I Gib de chile cole, 
sure as you lib.” 

“No, Cilia, it will not give her cold. Bring up a 
dish of cold water and some linen,” said Mr. Ellis, ^ 
lifting Edith from the gig. 

He carried her up to her room, and placed her in 
an easy-chair beside the bed, and Martha, lifting 
the sprained foot gently, placed it on a pillow in 
anotlfer chair. The handkerchief was unbound, 
and after Aunt Cilia had made an awkward attempt 
to draw off the stocking, it had to be cut off, as the 
boot had been, exposing the naturally small, white 
foot, now inflamed and swollen out of all proportimi. 
Mr. Ellis proceeded to examine it; then, without 
any remark, bathed it freely with cold water, and 
bandaged it up again in linen dipped in the water. 

“ How is your head?” he asked, kindly. 

Better, I thank you,” returned Edith. 

“ Aunt Cilia will stay with you to-night, for the 
cold water must be applied frequently. You must 
be kept very quiet, and live on low diet for a few 
days.” 

“ Will she have to take any medicine ?” asked 
Martha, making a wry face, as if she tasted some- 
thing nauseous. 


SABBATH IN THE COUNTRY. 89 

“ A dose of cooling medicine would benefit you,” 
said her father, turning to Edith. 

“ I will take it then,” she answered. And saying 
that he would prepare some and send it up, Mr. 
Ellis left the apartment. 

As soon as the door fairly closed on her master. 
Aunt Cilia, who had been very quiet, burst forth, 
“ Bress your heart, honey, but dis am unfortinite. 
And it minds me so ob missus when young massa 
andMisser War brought her homede day she broke 
her head. And den de day she died too! I tinks 
ob it all ; ob de little dead baby dat was buried wid 
her, and ob her poor, pale face, and I reckon as 
how young massa members it too, for he looks so 
grav^like. He was ginning to look like himself, 
and now it’ll all be brung so forcible fore him dat 
I’m afeard he’ll be down at de heel agin. Well,” 
she ejaculated, piously, “de Lor gins and de Lor 
takes away agin. Bress de Lor’s name, I hope he’ll 
take away young massa’s gravity and dis flamation 
fore morning.” 

“ Is all that redness inflammation. Aunt Cilia ?” 
asked Mary, 

“ Yes, honey, it am sure, and if cold water don’t 
’lay it. I’m afeard mortification ’ll come in, den de 
foot ’ll have to come ofi* to de ankle — p’r’aps to de 
knee— and shouldn’t be sprised, honey, if young 
massa had to chop off de whole leg clean up. 
Heard tell of such tings, honey.” 

“Oh, Aunt Cilia!” exclaimed^Mary, with a look 
of compassion towards Edith. 

“ What’s that you’re saying. Aunt Cilia? Miss 


90 


BEECH BLUFF. 


Edith’s leg ’ll have to come off, will it ? Now that’s 
keeping her quiet, as papa directed, isn’t it?” said 
Martha, entering with the medicine. 

“ I only ’lowed it will have to come off* honey, 
that’s all, if mortification sot in, you know. De Lor 
gins and de Lor takes away, and he may take de 
leg, you know. Neber be sartin ob noting in dis 
worl’, honey.” 

“ I am certain of one thing — Papa will not allow 
you to stay with Miss Edith if I tell him how you 
talk. I think I ’ll tell him, any way and she made' 
a movement towards the door. 

“ Oh, now, honey, don’t go for to bodder young 
massa. Goodness gracious I I only ’lowed it, you 
know.” And the old negro seemed thoroughly 
alarmed. 

“Well, papa don’t allow it; but if you won’t 
frighten Miss Edith again, I won’t go.” 

“I was not frightened, Matty,” said Edith, smil- 
ing ; and Martha closed the door which she had 
opened, with apparent unwillingness, however, and 
going up to Edith, whispered in her ear that she did 
not intend to tell her papa, but only wished to 
frighten Aunt Cilia into holding her tongue. 

“ I am to give you this medicine as soon as ever 
you are in bed,” she said, with a consequential air. 
“ Horrid, isn’t it ? But you know you promised 
papa that you’d take it evidently anticipating as 
much opposition from Edith as she generally of- 
fered herself when required to take medicine. 

“ Now, honey, de bed am ready. I’ll lif her in, 


SABBATH IN THE COUNTRY. ^ - 91 

Miss Mary, and you jist hold up de cheer and slide 
her foot off.” 

“ Oh, Martha, dear, not so high P exclaimed 
Edith, as Martha, pushing her sister aside, caught 
hold of the chair, and it went up suddenly, consid- 
erably above the level of the bed. At length she 
was established in bed, and she laid her head on 
her pillow with a feeling of relief and thankfulness 
that she would not have to be lifted to another place 
before morning. 

“I spec as how you’ll be glad ob some tea, honey, 
for you had no dinner. Now what dl you hab?’ 
said Aunt Cilia. “ Hot egg-bread, and corn-pone, 
and chicking, and 

“Nothing but some toast and a cup of tea. You 
know Mr. Ellis said I must have low diet,” inter- 
rupted Edith. 

“ Bress him heart, he knows bes’, young massa 
does, dat’s sartin ; but I’m ob de ’pinion dat you’d 
been a heap better if your foot been soused in lye, 
and a hot supper gin you to swaller instead ob dat 
medicine. What you bring dar ?” turning to Nelly, 
who entered with a server. 

“ Miss Eden’s supper,” answered the black girl. 

“Humph! Toas’ an’ tea? Hat’s young massa’s 
orderin’, I knows. Isn’t it,- now ?” and Aunt Cilia 
peered into Nelly’s face, obviously expecting her to 
say “no.” 

“ To be sure it am. Who knows in dis house 
what to gib sick folks, ’side Massa Jacob ?” 

“I does ; and I was jist gwine to order tea an’ 


92 


BEECH BLUFF. 


toas’ dis bery miniite,” replied Aunt Cilia, with a 
triumphant look. 

After tea, Martha and Mary asked Edith if she 
wished them to sit with her. 

“Perhaps you are sleepy?” said Mary. 

“Not sleepy, dear, but very tired,” answered 
Edith. 

“ We will stay here while Aunt Cilia goes down 
to the quarter to hear Father Ward speak to the 
Blacks. He always goes to see them when he 
comes, and they look for him,” said Martha. “ They 
have blown the horn, and papa and Mr. Ward went 
down before we came up stairs,” she added, turning 
to Aunt Cilia. 

“ Neber you mind, honey,” replied the old wo- 
man, not wishing to resign her charge into other 
hands. “I done heard all Misser War’s talk; he’ll 
speak to-night from de tex’ ‘ Sarvants, obey your 
marsers;' haint took dat un dis long time; I knows 
all he^s gwine to say on dat subjec’, honey ; stored 
in my mind long ago ; but I reckon I’ll go down 
and see what dat Nell’s a-doing in de dining-room.” 

“Will, one of you read me the gospel for the 
day?” asked Edith as soon as the door closed. 

“ Mary will, she reads best,” answered Martha. 
And taking Edith’s missal from the table, she 
handed it to her sister, who seated herself by the 
window for it was not yet dark, and opening the 
book she commenced in a clear, sweet voice. Aunt 
Cilia returned before the reading was finished, and 
stood in the doorway listening with her head bent, 
and her eyes fixed on the floor. When Mary 


SABBATH IN THE COUNTBY. 93 

closed the book, she shut the door. “No fear in 
di^ ole heart, Lor ; I think it hab peace, and I is 
willing to rise and go hence; bless de Lor’s name 
and Miser War’s teachins;” and a tear dropped 
from her eye, and rolled down the dark cheek of 
the old negro, as she proceeded to light the small 
astral lamp. 

Kissing Edith, and bidding her good-night, the 
two girls went into their own room, and she was 
left alone with Aunt Cilia, her sprained ankle, and 
her rosary. And so closed the day — her first Sun- 
day at Beech Bluff. 


CHAPTER VIII . 

LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF THE SICK-ROOM. 

Her length of sickness, with what else — 

Importeth thee to know this bears. 

Shakspeare. 

Early the next morning Mary peeped into 
Edith’s room, and, seeing her awake, entered in 
her night-gown, with her little stockingless feet 
thrust into slippers which, to use Martha’s figura- 
tive style of speech, were a mile too large for her. 

“Good-morning, Miss Edith. How long have 
you been awake?” 

“Not long, dear,” replied Edith. “But you 
must not stand there, for you will take cold ; the 
mornings are very chilly.” 

“I’ll go back directly, and get into bed again, for 
none of the -white folks are up. I just thought I’d 
peep in and see if you looked comfortable,” replied 
Mary, beginning to shiver. 

“ Come into my bed, Mary,” said Edith. 

“ O no. Miss Edith ! I might hurt your foot.” 

“No fear of that, my dear, if you are careful. 
Come.” And the slight, trembling form was nestled 
close beside her. 

“ Matty is sound asleep; and won’t she be sur- 
prised* when she wakes up and finds me gone, for 
she always gets up first ?” said Mary, in a confi- 
dential whisper. And then, after a moment of de- 
liberation, she put her lips to Edith’s, and said ; “I 


LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF THE SICK; ROOM. 95 


love you very much, Miss Edith; and I am so 
sorry that your foot got hurt, and I hope it will get 
well right soon.’' 

Edith kissed the blushing cheek of the timid 
girl, who was shrinking away as though frightened 
at her own boldness. “ I am very glad, dear Mary, 
that you love me, for you remind me of my sister 
Gracy, and I like you to put your arms around my 
neck as she used to do.’' 

“Do 3'’ou ? Do I? I mean, do you like my 
arms around your neck? Miss Hannah used to 
say that it was too familiar. And do I look like 
Gracy ?” 

“ Yes. Ho," said Edith, smiling at Mary’s eager- 
ness and look of delight. “I mean, I love you 
very much, and it pleases me, when I am so far 
from my friends, to have you remind me of my sis- 
ter by your affectionate ways. And no, you do 
not look like Gracy, for she has light'hair and blue 
eyes, and these curls of yours, dear, are a chestnut- 
brown. But Martha is awake" — as 4he sound of 
yawning proceeded from the next room. 

“ Yes, I am awake, almost,’' said Martha, coming 
into the room, still gaping, and with her eyes half 
shut. “What are you doing there, puss? How, 
out of it, quick ! You’ll hurt Miss Edith’s foot, and 
then papa’ll scold." 

“Indeed, Matty, papa never scolds; I’m sure 
you’ll 'make Miss Edith think he is a real bear. 
And I don’t hurt her foot at all, do I, Miss Edith ?" 

“You haven’t touched it yet,” said Edith. And 
Mary gave her sister a, triumphant look. 



96 


BEECH BLUFF. 


“Has the inflamation all gone?” asked Martha. 

“I think not, Matty ; my foot and ankle were 
very painful all night. 

“Didn’t you sleep the whole night?’’ asked Mar- 
tha, rubbing open her eyes with one doubled up 
hand, while the other rested on her fat side. 

“ No, dear. Aunt Cilia bathed my foot several 
times, and I expect I was a little nervous, for I did 
not get asleep till near morning.” 

“ And then puss woke you up, didn’t she ?” — 
elevating her eyebrows at Mary. 

“ I had been awake some time when she came in,” 
said Edith. And then, noticing Matty’s bare feet, 
^ she exclaimed : “Go and dress yourself, Matty; I. 
cannot allow you to stand in the cold with only 
your night-gown on.” 

“ Here comes. Aunt Cilia with some cold water to 
bathe your foot again ; I’ll just wait and see how it 
looks.’’ 

“ Put a shawl on, right straight. Miss Matty, or 
you shan’t se^de foot at all,” said Aunt Cilia, per- 
emptorily. And, setting dovvn the basin, she brought 
a shawl herself, and threw it over her young mis- 
tress’ shoulders. 

“ 0 my, how it’s swollen !” and, “ Put your feet 
together. Miss Edith, and let us see the difference,” 
exclaimed the girls, as Aunt Cilia removed the 
bandages. 

“Now, ain’t dat a purty foot, honey?” said Aunt 
Cilia, with an admiring glance towards the right 
one, as Edith put it outside of the coverlet, “Not 
much bigger dan your own, honey, and I allers 


LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF THE SICK ROOM. 97 

thought dem de tiniest, whitest little uns in de world. 
Put yourn here, Miss Mary; right down dar, side of 
dat un.” 

“ Look at mine,” said Martha, sitting down in the 
easy-chair, and putting her own up on the bedside. 

“Dem’s pincushings, honey.’^ And they all 
laughed at the contrast between these two short, 
fat, pink feet of Martha’s, and those of Edith and 
Mary, so slender and almost marble white, 

“ De born image of your mamma’s chile I Poor 
missus! she allers had such bodder a-gittin’ shoes; 
neber could git none to fit; and den, ’long side de 
nat’ral bodder, she had de rheumatiz,” said Aunt 
Cilia, replacing the bandages, and heaving a sigh at 
the recollection of her departed mistress’s troubles. 

“Now, honeys, run and dress yourse'ls, I hear 
Nell in yer room ; and I’ll red up this room a bit, 
furl ’spect young rnassa’ll come in, right arter Misser 
War gwines away, to ’xamine de lame foot. Take 
off dat ar’ cap Miss Eden, fur you don’t look so like 
sick folks when you have yer bar combed up and 
de cap under de piller. Nelly’ll fix your har arter 
de young ladiea am dressed ; she’s a hand at that 
bizness.” 

“ If you will give me my combs and brushes, and^ 
that little glass, I will dress it myself,” said Edith. 

“Netting ob de kind. Miss Eden! ’Tain’t in rea- 
son dat yer should go for to sile yer hands, when 
dat Nell hain’t got netting to do but to wait on 
folks.” 

“ But I have always been accustomed to wait bn 

9 


98 


BEECH BLUFF. 


myself, Aunt Cilia, and I prefer to dress my own 
hair,” insisted Edith. 

“ Massa told me to tend to yer wants while yer 
stayed with us, but dese ole fingers hab lost der 
cunning dat dey used to hab when I tended to de 
wants ob missus’ head ; and ’side de har dressing. 
I’ll do eberyt’ing else,” Opening the door, she asked 
Martha to “send Nelly to fix Miss Edith’s head, 
when she was done with her;” and Edith thought 
it best not to raise any more objections at present, 
resolving, however, to dispense with both Aunt 
Cilia’s and Nelly’s services as soon as her foot would 
allow her to walk about her room and wait on 
herself. 

“ Neber saw such har. Miss Eden,” said Nelly, 
as she drew out the comb, and let the long black 
mass failover the pillow. “ I aint customed to 
trim such heads, and don’t know as I can git dis 
loop up tasty, but I’ll try,” And she twisted and 
wound it around the comb, trying in vain to make 
it look “tasty,” until Edith told her, if it was 
smooth, that would be sufficient. At length, her 
toilet was completed, and, bidding Nelly throw open 
the blinds, Edith rested her head on the scarlet 
cushion with which Aunt Cilia had propped her up, 
and which, it cannot be denied, was exceedingly 
becoming to her oriental style of beauty. 

Immediately after breakfast Martha and Mary 
entered Edith’s room, with their hands behind them 
and their faces wreathed in smiles. 

“ Which do you like the best. Miss Edith ?” they 


LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF THE SICK ROOM. 99 

botli exclaimed, stopping before they reached the 
bed. 

“ That is rather a delicate question,^’ said Edith, 
smiling. 

“ We mean, whose hands do you like best? We 
have something in our hands, and you must choose, 
and, whichever you say, that you shall have first,” 
said Mary, laughing and shaking herself, and 
thereby revealing some flowers in her own hand. 

“ I think I’ll take Mary’s hand.” 

“Medicine!” “Flowers!” they laughed out, hold- 
ing up a bouquet of lovely flowers, yet wet with the 
dew, and a bottle of medicine. 

Father Ward picked them himself, and told me 
to give them to you,” said Mary, handing Edith the 
bouquet; “ he said it would be a relief to your eyes 
to look at something besides the objects in your 
room.” 

“And papa sent the arnica : thought it would be 
a relief to your foot, I reckon,’’ said Martha, pla- 
cing the bottle on the table. 

“ I am much obliged for both,” said Edith, exam- 
ining the flowers, of which she was passionately 
fond. “ These are lovely. I am afraid Father 
Ward robbed some of Uncle Sigh’s plants.” 

“ Oh, no, indeed ! Uncle Sigh always gives him 
a bunch every time he comes here, and was goijig 
to pick some, when he told him that he would pick 
them himself.” 

“ Your papa must have a medicine chest, Matty; 
he seems to have everything just when it is wanted. 
Has he not one ?” 


100 


BEECH BLUFF. 


“Yes, Miss Edith, but he had no arnica, and sent 
over to ^udley’s plantation for it last evening.” 

At that moment a step sounded in the hall, and 
Mr. Ellis stood in the doorway. 

“Come in, papa I” said Mary ; then, laughing, she 
pointed at Edith and said, “ See, she likes the 
flowers best !” 

“I am not surprised at that,” said her father, 
giving a glance at the flowers, and then looking at 
the beautiful face bending over them. “Good 
morning. Miss Edith ; how did you rest last night ?” 

“ Not very well,” replied Edith, somewhat con- 
fused. 

“She never slept one bit until near morning, for 
she told me so,” said Martha, abruptly. 

“ Was your foot so painful?’’ asked Mr. Ellis. 

“It was very painful during the greater part of 
the night but became easier towards morning.” 

“ I think the side of the foot is sprained as well 
as the ankle,” said he, removing the bandages. “ I 
was fearful, when I removed your gaiter, that the 
ligaments were torn, but they are only badly 
strained. Ah, yes, the inflammation has subsided 
somewhat, and by applying this arnica it will be- 
kept down. The bruises will appear in a day or 
two, and you must not let Aunt Cilia alarm you by 
mistaking the blackness for mortification,” said he, 
bathing the foot and ankle freely with the arnica. 

“ I think /should know the diflerence,” returned 
Edith, with a smile. “Aunt Cilia is a very kind, 
attentive nurse; but — ” 

“A very loquacious one,” interrupted Mr. Ellis. 


LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF THE SICK ROOM. 101 

‘‘Not SO much so as to annoy me,’’ answered 
Edith. “ I think I rather like to hear her talk, for 
it keeps my mind diverted.’’ 

“ Now, what do you wish me to send you from 
the library?” said Mr. Ellis, rising from his chair. 

“Miss Edith, won’t you let me read to you?” 
asked Mary, with an eager face, before Edith had 
time to answer her father’s question. 

“Certainly, my dear, if you would like to do so.” 

“ What book shall I bring?” 

“Any that pleases you; select one of your own 
favorites,” replied Edith. 

“ Matty,’* said Mr. Ellis, “ do you wish to go into 
the garden with me?” 

“Yes, sir. I'll go; but I wouldn’t disturb Miss 
Edith if I stayed here,” said Matty, divining her 
father’s reason for asking her. 

“No, Matty, you do not disturb me in the least; 
on the contrary, I like to have you here,” Edith 
hastened to say, fearing that Matty’s feelings had 
been wounded by the implication that Mary was 
the most judicious one to leave in the room. 

. “I’ll go with papa to the garden awhile, and 
then I’ll come and sit with you, after Mary has done 
reading aloud,” answered Martha, with a gratified 
smile. 

“ You did not ask me to call again,” said Mr. 
Ellis, as he was about to leave the apartment. He 
spoke in a playful tone, and as he looked back at 
Edith, his countenance wore that indescribable ex- 
pression which occasionally illuminated his hand- 


102 


BEECH BLUFF. 


some face, despelling its gravity, and lending to it 
such a peculiar charm. 

“ It was not necessary, ’’ she replied, slightly color- 
ing; “ a physician is never invited to call upon his 
patient ; he is expected to do so.” 

“ Then you may expect a professional visit from 
me this ’afternoon — after dinner and bowing, he 
left the room with the two girls. 

In a few moments, Mary returned with a hand- 
somely bound volume of W averly in her hand. 

“ I have brought ‘ Kenilworth,’ Miss Edith ; have 
you ever read it ?” 

“Yes, long ago; but I would like to hear it read, 
my dear,” replied Edith. 

“ I began it two or three weeks ago, and read a 
few chapters, but I will begin at the very beginning, 
so that we can enjoy it together,” said Mary, open- 
ing the book. 

“How far did you read, dear?’’ 

“ Let me see !” said Mary, knitting her brows as 
she turned over the leaves. 

“ I read to where Amy’s father sent for her, and 
she would not go with Tressilian, and he and Yar- 
ney almost got into a quarrel. I don’t think I am 
going to like that Yarney, somehow or other; I ex- 
pect he will be the villain in the story. You know. 
Miss Edith, every story has to have a villain; and 
then Leicester sent Amy a necklace ; that is as far 
as I read.” 

“Commence the fifth chapter, Mary. I remem- 
ber all that is contained in the preceding chapters.” 


LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF THE SICK ROOM. 103 


Wasn’t it funny that the reading* of ‘Cumnor 
Ilall’ should have made Scott write this book ? 

‘ The dews of summer night did fall ; 

The moon sweet regent of the sky, 

Silvered the walls of Cumnor Hall 
And many an oak that grew thereby.’ 

I read about that in the introduction. Now I will 
begin, Miss Edith.” And, sitting back comfortably 
in the easy-chair, Mary commenced and read for 
some time, pausing occasionally to make some re- 
mark on the character of Varney, whom she ob- 
viously considered capable of the most atrocious 
crimes ; to laugh at the surprise and delight of the 
countess and her maid Janet, when first introduced 
into the splendid apartments prepared without their 
knowledge in the mansion which was nothing more 
nor less than Amy’s prison-house ; and to look ahead 
a little to see if Leicester was soon coming to his 
lonely countess, hoping all the while that he would 
not turn out bad, after all. 

When Martha returned, so absorbed was Mary 
in the book that she did not look up, but continued 
readino; witliout noticing her sister’s entrance. 
Edith smiled and motioned to Martha, to be seated, 
arid, sitting down by the window, after a few rest- 
less moments her attention became fixed, and she 
listened with as much interest as Mai’y read. 

The reading was not interrupted until Aunt Cilia 
came into the room for the purpose of bathing the 
foot; then Mai’y drew a long breath, and closing 
the book asked what o’clock it was. “ Oh; Aunt 
Cilia, it can’t be so late !” she exclaimed, doui^tingly, 
when told that the clock had struck twelve. 


104 


BEECH BLUFF. 


“Yes, indeed, honey, it am, sartin; dehorn done 
blowed far de sarvants’ dinner.” 

“I’ve been reading three hours; but isn’t the 
book interesting, Miss Edith ? Don’t you like it, 
Matty ?” 

“ Yes, almost as well as Eobinson Crusoe. I 
want to know what became of Amy, and if the earl 
took her to court. I'd have taken her there, just 
out of spite, to let that red-headed old queen see 
how handsome she was! But wasn’t Leicester 
mean to leave her in that big house alone with 
Tony Foster and Janet?” said Matty, looking very 
indignant, her voice considerably raised under the 
influence. of her feelings, and forgetting for. the 
moment that her own hair verged on the “last rays 
of the May-day sun,” as well as Queen Elizabeth’s. 

“But, Matty,” said Mary, who seemed disposed 
to take the part of the Earl of Leicester, he having 
evidently made a favorable impression on her mind, 
“ I am sure the earl wanted to have her with him 
all the time, but you know that he had married her 
without the queen’s permission, and she had such a 
horrid temper that as like as not she would have 
imprisoned Amy, and had all her teeth pulled out 
to spoil her beauty.” 

Martha still seemed suspicious of the noble earl, 
notwithstanding her sister’s animated if not able 
speech in his defence, and Mary appealed to Edith 
to confirm what she had said. 

“Just tell us why he left her in Cumnor Hall 
while he was playing beau to Queen Elizabeth! 


LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF THE SICK KOOM. 105 

that’s what we want to know, Miss Edith, said 
Martha. 

“ I will explain as well as I am able, my dear,” 
said Edith. “In the first place, he had, as Mary 
observed, married Amy Eobsart secretly, without 
her father’s knowledge or the queen’s permission, 
and it was necessary, therefore, to keep her in re- 
tirement until a favorable opportunity offered for 
revealing his marriage; and while his visits were 
frequent, she was reconciled to the seclusion, and 
patiently waited till he should present her to the' 
world as his countess. But Leicester was a great 
favorite of the queen, who, it was thought, wished 
to make him her husband, and he knew that she 
Avould be very angry when she discovered tliat he 
had deceived her, and the favors which she had 
heaped upon him he expected would be withdrawn. 
Being a very ambitious man, this dread of the 
queen’s displeasure and fear of the consequences 
caused him to delay the announcement of his mar- 
riage, until, finally, he was obliged to confess it in 
order to save — but I am telling the whole story,” 
she said, laughing. “ Do you understand now why 
the earl left his countess in the manor house while 
he was at court?” 

“Yes, Miss Edith, I do,”. answered Martha, not 
one whit the less indignant ; “ he liked his place be- 
side the queen better than he loved his wife; so he 
was mean, after all.” 

“ Pity if he was mean,” said Mary, the word 
mean expressed everything unworthy, “ for he was 
so handsome, and Amy loved him so much ;” and 


106 


BEECH BLUFF. 


she opened tlie hook, and prepared to resume the 
reading. 

“ 1^0, Mary,” said Edith, checking her, “ you 
have read quite sufficient for to-day. You have 
been sitting still quite long enough; you had better 
run down stairs now, and take some exercise before 
dinner.” 

“ It’s too warm. Miss Edith,” said Mary, not wish- 
ing to relinquish the book. 

“ Perhaps Miss Edith will allow you to read 
after dinner,” said Martha, looking rather doubtful, 
however. 

“ Positively no more to-day, my dear,” said Edith, 
decidedly, and the two girls went out of the room 
saying that they would go into the garden and find 
their father, and ask him what he thought of Kenil- 
worth. The words “ Tressilian,” “Yarney,” “Amy,” 
“Mean,” “Leicester,” &;c., reached Edith’s ear as 
they ran down stairs, and she smiled at the interest 
Martha evinced in the story, and at her acknowledg- 
ment that it pleased her almost as well as Eobinson 
Crusoe. 

Edith had discovered the poverty of Catholic 
works in Mr. Ellis’s library, .the few there being 
controversial and not suited to his young daughters, 
who thoroughly instructed by Father Ward in 
their catechism, needed no arguments to be con- 
vinced of the truth of the church doctrines. Martha 
had said, in answer to a question of Edith’s, that 
she found the Trinity to be the “ hardest” to under- 
stand, until Father Ward held up before her, one 
day when they were walking, a three-leaved clover 


LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF THE SICK ROOM. 107 

— the shamrock — and then she perfectly understood 
how there could be three in one. Mary’s taste for 
reading, left, as she had been to her own direction, 
had led her to the perusal of whatever books her 
father’s shelves offered as attractive; Cooper, Scott, 
and Dickens had received a full share of attention, 
together with the various poets, but this desultory 
reading had been of little benefit, merely entertain- 
ment for the hour, and had resulted in a confusion 
of ideas, which is the never-failing consequence of 
want and of method. Besides, in all the child’s 
reading, there had entered no books calculated to 
educate the heart, and with Edith’s Catholic views, 
she must believe that of infinitely greater impor- 
tance than the mere instruction or entertainment of 
the mind ; she had, from the spoken sentiments of 
her pupils for there was but small opportunity to 
evince character by action, been guided to a toler- 
ably correct estimate of their individual character, 
and had obtained hints for the mode of education 
each demanded. The course of reading she had 
already settled upon, and we may suppose it was 
not to be confined to the books in Beech Bluft* 
library. 

Mr. Ellis made his professional visit after dinner, 
and Edith took the opportunity to ask him to 
obtain for her a chest of books from Augusta. 

De laughed as bespoke of the discussion between 
his daughters, at the dinner-table, relative to the 
merits and demerits of the Earl of Leicester, and 
said, in answer to a question from Edith, “ I do not 
object to their reading Scott’s works, though, as a 


108 . BEECH BLUFF. * 

general thing, I do not approve of their reading 
works of fiction at so early an age, when their 
minds should be given almost wholly to their 
studies. But when read occasionally, and under 
the eye of a judicious person, I think that works 
like the Waverley Novels are beneficial, not only 
as a recreation to the mind^ but on account of the 
beauty and easy flow of language which distinguish 
all of Scott’s writings, and which I have an idea 
that young persons insensibly glide into the use of 
by becoming familiar with it in reading. I am 
pleased to have them read aloud,” he continued, 
“ and should have encouraged them in doing so 
myself, but their mother had an unconquerable 
aversion to hearing a person read aloud, and even 
the reading of the lessons in the Episcopal service 
made her nervous. Mary used sometimes to read 
to me in the library, but her mother usually occu- 
pied the sitting-room, and I found that it annoyed 
her so much that we at last gave it up ; and since 
her death I have sadly neglected them, allowing 
Mary to go off by herself and read, while Martha 
has passed her time since Miss Hannah went away 
in riding horseback, and amusing herself on the 
Indian mound, which she called an island,, bringing 
children from the quarter to inhabit it, and getting 
furious at Uncle Sigh, when he has ventured to in- 
terfere with her ‘savages.’ She never seemed to 
have any taste for books, and I am rather surprised 
at the interest which Kenilworth seems to have 
awakened; if encouraged, it may engender a taste 
for history, as most of Scott’s characters are histor- 
ical.” 


LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF THE SICK ROOM. 109 

Aunt Cilia was standing beside the bed, preparing 
fresh linen for Edith’s foot; and when Mr. Ellis men- 
tioned the singular dislike of his wife to hearing a 
person read, she ejaculated, as if offering an excuse 
for her departed mistress, “ So narvous, so terribly 
narvous !” 

“The days glided quietly and uneventfully by. 
Mr. Ellis’s visits became more frequent as Edith 
was able to sit up, and however dull she might feel, 
the dulness rapidly vanished when his pleasant face 
appeared at the door, and he smiled at her cheerful 
welcome. The readings continued to take place 
every morning, and by the time Edith’s books had 
arrived from Augusta the little reading circle had 
followed Amy Robsart through her sad fortunes, 
and were ready to commence the very book that 
had been left lying on the work table at the Stan- 
ford farm. It proved even more interesting to the 
girls, than the fascinating pages of Kenilworth. 
While Mary and Edith read by turns, Martha was 
learning to sew, something difficult' of accomplish- 
ment, but for the interest awakened by the reading, 
which, in Aunt Cilia’s phraseology “kep’ her 
down.” Her endeavors in needle work, threatened 
to be exhausted on a handkerchief she aspired to 
hem for her father, and which, when completed pre- 
sented quite a .scarlet border from the blood stains 
originating in the awkward stabbing of her fingers ; 
— that handkerchief was looked upon, with loving 
satisfaction by her father then, and long afterwards 
with misty eyes ; it was her never-to-be-forgotten 
first piece of industry. 

10 


110 


BEECH BLUFF, 


Editli considered it advisable to turn away from 
the beaten track of “ systematic reading’’ and tra- 
vel for awhile the bye-way of fiction, but “ fiction 
following closely on the footsteps of truth.” Con- 
sequently after “ Fabiola” had been followed up by 
the lives of St. Agnes — St. Cecilia, then those beau- 
tiful works of Lady Fullerton, with their healthy and 
religious tone, were introduced . and created a 
spirit of enthusiasm in the Beech Bluff circle. His- 
tory was to be confined to the school-room, and 
spiritual reading to Edith’s appartment the last 
half hour before retiring, and this last hour was 
often found to be the pleasantest of the day. 

Selirn was not brought out quite so often to 
gallop on the hills with his young mistress ; the 
Indian mound was less frequented, and the little 
“ savages” at the quarter asked in vain for “Miss 
Crusoe,” as they called Matty when playing on 
their island. She had become more subdued in her 
manners, though she had lost none of her inde- 
pendent ways, and the lofty expression of her coun- 
tenance was not abated one jot ; but her voice had 
become more gentle, and her speech more refined, 
and there was a very perceptible change for the 
better in the style of her toilet. Her hair was care- 
fully plaited and bdund with ribbons; the old 
calico sacques had been discarded, and the capes 
of her dresses had taken their place, and her shoe- 
strings no longer tripped her up, but were neatly 
tied around her ankles. Mr. Ellis remarked the 
change with pleasure, and one day, when Martha 
entered Edith’s room looking particularly neat, he 


LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF THE SICK ROOM. Ill 

said, as lie drew her towards him, “Matty, I know 
of nothing that has given me so much real pleasure 
of late, as the improvement in your personal ap- 
pearance; and now, my child, if you value the.corn- 
pliment at all, just share it with Miss Edith, for I 
am sure it is she who has been teaching you that 
‘cleanliness is next unto godliness.’” 

It was two weeks after the accident that the de- 
clining sun threw its last rays across a letter which 
Edith held in her hand as she. sat at her window 
looking out with thoughtful eyes upon the lawn. 
The letter was from her mother, and this was the 
third time it had been read and pondered over. 

After giving in detail all the little incidents of 
home-life, every one of which Edith read and re- 
read, smiled or sighed over in a manner which con- 
tradicted the opening statement of the letter, that 
nothing of interest had occurred at the farm since 
she left home, Mrs. Stanford added a few items of 
“ town news.” A new star had appeared suddenly 

on the horizon of B society a few days after 

Edith’s departure, dazzling everyone with its splen- 
dor, and making all those bodies which had been 
considered as luminaries appear dim and insignifi- 
cant, and, shooting meteor-like into that part of 
the firmament where the greatest number of satel- 
lites revolved, it had drawn them into its own 
orbit, thereby creating the greatest consternation 
and dismay among all other stars both great and 
small. 

In other words, a niece of Mrs. Kichards, return- 
ing home to New York, after a tour through the 


112 


BEECH BLUFF. 


Canadas, had stopped at the lovely village of B , 

and, pleased with the quiet beauty of the place, she 
had prevailed on her friends to leave her with her 
aunt, promising to return, under the escort of her 
uncle, to her city-home in October. A few evenings 
after her arrival, she attended a soiree with her aunt, 
when her loveliness and unequalled musical perform- 
ance had made her the bright particular star of the 
evening. Invitations followed in rapid succession, 
for it was understood that her stay was limited ; and, 
at the time Mrs. Stanford wrote, nightly soirees were 
being given for this young stranger, whose brilliant 
beauty was the theme of every tongue. 

“You once told me,” wrote Mrs. Stanford, “that 
you did not believe that ihQ principle of constancy 
in attachments ever existed in Charles Howard’s na- 
ture; and since you are so skeptical on that point, 
you will not be much surprised to learn that he is 
Miss Acton’s constant attendant and — I have been 
told — her avowed admirer.” 

Had Mrs. Stanford been present, Edith, no doubt, 
would have felt stronly tempted to use the old lady’s 
triumphant expression, “ I told you so !” or, “I knew 
it !” She was not surprised at Charles Howard’s 
worshipping at another shrine in less than a fort- 
night after his separation from the divinity whom 
he had professed to adore, and before whom, but a 
short time previous, he had knelt and pleaded so 
earnestly to be allowed to hope that she would look 
with favor upon his suit; but she did marvel that 
it awakened no other feeling in her breast save that 
of pity for so fickle a nature, and she doubted if 


LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF THE SICK ROOM. 113 

she knew her own heart when she told her mother 
that she loved him ; and she wondered if she had 
mistaken for love a feeling of gratified vanity at the 
acknowledged preference of a person so talented, 
handsome, and wealthy. 

“ Then why did my heart throb more quickly 
and my cheek burn at his approach ?” she asked 
herself. “ It certainly could not have been love^ or 
I would not feel this utter indifference at the trans- 
fer of his affections. Not even a feeling of wounded 
pride is aroused. I did not love him ; I was merely 
fascinated while in his presence, like the bird under 
the eye of the charmer, whose influence is gone as 
soon as his eye is withdrawn. 

“ Better that I came away, since he is a fixture in 

B , and meeting him constantly was unavoidable ; 

he would have danced attendance, dear knows how 
long! He knows quite well his own attractions; 
even poor, dear. Mother was taken by them; but- 
now she sees — she sees I was right, I have found 
my vocation ; I am distined to be an old maid 
teacher, and certainly, I could not have found else- 
where a more-agreeable novitiate. Blessed Mother, 
you who heard my prayer for deliverance from the 
irrisistable influence I was fast succumbing to, and 
led my footsteps hither, aid me to deal j ustly by those 
young souls committed to my care.” 

Edith’s head was now bent upon her two hands, 
and throbbed with the thought of the responsibility 
she had assumed. She felt that she was losing time, 
she must be up and doing; her foot and ankle were 
well enough to admit of her going to the school- 


114 


BEECH BLUFF. 


room — and she would* propose commencing her 
duties at once. 

“Nobody but young massa, Miss Eden,” said 
Aunt Cilia, as Edith started suddenly at the sound 
of footsteps on the stairs. 

She was quietly folding up the letter when Mr. 
Ellis entered the room ; and, with a very grave face, 
she said, without looking up, however, “1 am glad 
to see you, Mr. Ellis, for I wish to ask you a ques- 
tion.” 

“ How can you see me when your eyes are in 
another direction ?” said he, smiling, and standing 
directly before her. 

Her forefathers would not have felt much flat- 
tered at the epithets she was mentally bestowing on 
their blood coursing through her veins, and which 
seemed to have a decided tendency to her face, as if 
she were placed here for the purpose of blushing 
for their misdeeds. 

“ Is it a question of life or death ?” he asked, seat- 
ing himself in the chair which Aunt Cilia placed 
for him “ I judge it must be, from the serious ex- 
pression of your face.” 

“ It is a very important one, at least to me,” she 
replied, shaking her head, and smiling. 

“ If so, it will require mature deliberation before 
I can venture to answer it; a week, at least, will be 
necessary.” 

“ I think you will be able to answer it at once,” 
she answered, more than half suspecting that he 
knew it already. 

“Very well. Now for this important question.” 


LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF THE SICK ROOM. 115 

And lie bent forward with an affectation of fixed 
attention. 

“Can I commence my school work to-morrow?” 
she asked, abruptly. 

“If you desire to do so, certainly.” 

She looked up in astonishment at his ready ac- 
quiescence, for she had expected opposition from the 
fact tliat she had not yet been down stairs, and, 
moreover, he had told that she must not use her 
foot for a week, as it was not in a proper state to 
walk. 

After a moment’s pause, he asked, “ Have you 
walked to-day ?” 

“I walked into the next room and throuc^h, the 
hall.” she replied. 

“ Why is it so important that you should com- 
mence school to-morrow?” he asked. 

“ I came here for the purpose of teaching, and I 
do not wish to be idle longer than is absolutely 
necessary,” she replied. 

“ In other words,” said he, rising from his chair, 
and standing with his hand resting upon the back of 
it, “you. have been thinking of the two years in 
durance vile, and conclude that the sooner you com- 
mence your work the sooner it will be finished. 
Perhaps you fear that the time spent in idleness, as 
you are pleased to terra it (you forget the readings, 
which have been so profitable to my daughters), will 
delay your return to your friends ; permit me. Miss 
Edith, to assure you that I am not a hard master, 
requiring the uttermost farthing, but your two 
years in my employ commenced the day you left 


116 


BEECH BLUFF. 


your home. If I have displayed over solicitude 
for your health, you must excuse it; but a sprain 
like that” — pointing towards her foot — “ if not well 
cared for in the recovery, might injure the general 
health, and it would be unfortunate, certainly, if 
you were to experience any ill effects from the pre- 
mature use of your foot ; for illness is not very de- 
sirable at any time or place, least of all where there 
is no better nursing than Beech Bluff affords.” 

He stood before her in expectation of some reply ; 
but she was so surprised to find her words miscon- 
strued, and so unprepared for the sudden change in 
his manner, that she could not at first speak. 

After waiting a moment, he continued : “ I judged 
that you were going to ask permission to walk in 
the garden, as you expressed a wish to that effect 
yesterday ; and, knowing that the gravel and in- 
equalities of the walk would be an obstacle to your 
doing so, I was prepared to utter a refusal — taking 
the liberty of a physician,” said, he, with the shadow 
of a smile on his flushed face. 

“I am sorry, Mr. Ellis, that you have so misin- 
terpreted my meaning,” she at length said ; and her 
voice, which was at first unsteady, became firmer, 
as she thought that he had done her an injustice in 
the motives he had attributed to her wish to com- 
mence school. “ I am here as your daughter’s gov- 
erness, and it is very natural that I should wish to 
enter upon my duties as soon as possible, particu- 
larly as I discover that the girls are impatient to be- 
gin their studies ; and since you have prohibited 
their bringing their books to my room, I feel that I 


LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF THE SICK BOOM. 117 

ought to make an effort to attend to them in the 
school-room.” 

“ It would require an effort, then ?” said Mr. 
Ellis, with a significant smile. 

Without noticing the interruption, she continued, 
“My general health is perfect, and since I can use 
my foot sufficiently to go about my room, I think I 
might make the attempt to go down stairs with 
Aunt Cilia’s assistance, and without apprehending 
any ill effects to result from it either. If I were not 
satisfied that I could accomplish the journey with- 
out difficulty, I would not be so imprudent as to 
undertake it, for I should be very loth to be brought 
back to my room to draw more largely upon the 
attention and sympathy of my nurses, of whose un- 
wearied kindness I am fully sensible, and only re- 
gret that I cannot express how. much I appreciate 
it. I hope, Mr. Ellis, that you will not think that 
I look back upon the last two weeks as lost time, 
for I assure you that I value them for the close 
companionship that has existed between myself and 
the girls, and which has given me an insight into 
their characters that will enable me to adapt my- 
self to their different dispositions and thus discharge 
my duty more faithfully.” 

All embarrassment and timidity had disappeared 
from her manner, and she looked into his face with, 
her full, dark eyes, and spoke earnestly, as if she 
wished to convince him that she was not so parsi- 
monious of her time as he had supposed. Gazing 
into her upturned face for a moment, his stiff, formal 
manner relaxed gradually into its usual quiet dig- 


118 


BEECH BLUFF. 


nity, and he said, in a very mild voice — though his 
face flushed, and the veins in his forehead became 
fuller as bespoke — “You must forgive me. Miss 
Edith; I was hasty, and my words were unkind, 
ungentlemanly, and I sincerely regret them. The 
school-room will be ready for you in the morning, 
since your strong sense of duty will not allow you 
another week for the better recovery of your foot, 
and you pupils will without doubt be glad to wel- 
come you.” 

There was not the least bit of irony in his tone, 
but he spoke as if wishing to excuse himself for 
allowing her to undertake what he was convinced 
she was not able to perform — going up and down 
the long flight of stairs. 

“ Will you rest better, now that this important 
question is decided?” he asked, with a return of 
his pleasant way, and the old, sweet smile. 

“Perhaps so,” she replied; and, with the ac- 
customed, “Well, good-night,” he left the room, 
and no sooner had his footsteps died away than, 
leaning forward, and resting her head on the vacant 
chair before her, she burst into tears; and, forgetful 
of the presence of the old housekeeper, she ex- 
claimed, “ It icas ungentlemanly and unkind to tell 
me in almost plain words that I had more solicitude 
about my salary than my health, that I thought I 
was losing time and money ; and then to think me 
ungrateful for all the kindness they have bestowed 
upon me;” and the tears and sobs came thick and 
fast. 

“Now, Miss Eden,” said the kind voice of Aunt 


LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF THE SICK KOOM. 119 

Cilia, “you’m bery foolish, for young massa didn’t 
mean a ting, just noting at all; it only hurt his 
pride when he tot dat you wanted to take up school 
and get it ober as soon as you could, and git hum 
agin, jis as if dar wa’n’t nobody here fit to shoshate 
wid, and ’sif you didn’t like us. Now honey, don't 
take on so, for massa sorry, I knows by de big 
veins in his forehead, and he won’t do it agin. You 
must git used to dese ways. Miss Eden.” After 
waiting a moment, she discovered the letter in 
Edith’s hand, and exclaimed, “It’s dat letter. Miss 
Eden, I knows; not massa’s words, arter all. You’m 
homesick, honey. Dat’s what ale de chile, arter all, 
and dis bery to-morrow you must go out to ride, 
and git cheered up; I’ll speak to — IMiss Mattie 
about it,” said she, checking herself as she was 
about to say “ young massa.” 

Aunt Cilia was not far from the truth in thinking 
that Edith was homesick, for the feeling which had 
possession of her at that moment bordered more 
closely on homesickness than she was willing to 
acknowledge even to herself, and when Aunt Cilia 
mentioned the letter, a fresh burst of tears was her 
only response. Her thoughts made a pilgrimage to 
the dear old farm-house, and she fancied the in- 
mates spending a quiet, pleasant evening together, 
while she, so far distant, was weeping in her cham- 
ber, with none to comfort her save the old negro 
servant ; then her thoughts flew back again, and 
she no longer accused Mr. Ellis of unjustly thinking 
her ungrateful, but she chided herself for being so; 
she remembered how the trio in her present home 


120 


BEECH BLUFF. 


had by their united efforts made the two weeks of 
confinement to her room pass so pleasantly and 
rapidly away. She thought of their loving kind- 
nesses, of the affection that was lavished upon her 
by the girls, and a smile mingled with tears as she 
remembered how often the bright expression, which 
she liked so much, had been called to Mr. Ellis’s 
face by her own happy, contagious, laugh; of his 
invariable look of surprise — and, she had some- 
times fancied of regret — when warned of the late- 
ness of the hour by the entrance of Aunt Cilia with 
the astral lamp, which always occurred simultane- 
ously with his pleasant “good night. Miss Edith, 
as he left her room, accompanied by the two girls. 
Then her thoughts traveled home again, and brought 
all her friends to Beech Bluff, and they were having 
an exciting time over sprained ankles, cold water, 
and arnica, when she was aroused by the voice of 
Aunt Cilia, exclaiming — 

“Wake up. Miss Eden, it’s nigh on to ’leven !’’ 
and she was surprised, when fully aroused, to find 
her tears all dried, and herself more inclined to 
smile than to weep. “ Bat’s right, honey ; I’m glad 
to see yer own cheerful face agin. Now undress 
yerself, and get to bed, fur it’s late, sartin,” said 
Aunt Cilia, exercising the authority of a nurse. 

“Then I’ve really been asleep?’*’ said Edith, in- 
terrogatively. 

“Ob course you hab. You didn’t snore, but I 
knowed by yer reg’lar breathing dat yer was 
sleepin’ ; and when yer didn’t lif yer head to speak 
to the young missusses when dey kissed you, fore 


LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF THE SICK DOOM. 121 

dey went into der own room, den I know’d it more 
so.” 

While she was preparing for her couch, Edith 
arranged in her mind the hours for study and 
music lessons. “ I must begin my work in earnest,” 
said she to herself; “my time belongs to my pupils 
now, and T must make it as profitable to them as 
possible. To-morrow I commence my governess 
life; no longer the idle recipient of favors, but an 
instructor, a laborer in a vineyard, placed here to 
train the vines in a manner that will be acceptable 
to my master the long hair is hastily bound up 
in the becoming little cap, and she turns from the 
reflection in the glass, and continues her medita- 
tions : “I must not allow my thoughts to dwell on 
any subject in such a manner as will cause me to 
neglect my duties or forget my pupils’ interests. 
Since they are without a mother to counsel them, 
they must be my companions out of school hours, 
and I must watch over them, reproving whatever 
would be displeasing to a mother’s eye, and encour- 
aging in them everything good and noble.” Some 
pins were stuck into the cushion, and more resolu- 
tions were adopted. • “ They must be di.sciplined to 
habits of punctuality and neatness, whicli, if ac- 
quired at home, will spare them many a mortifica- 
tion and unhappy moment at their finishing school. 
How often I have pitied students at the seminary 
when sent from the school-room or dinner- table in 
disgrace for untidiness in dress, or tardiness in at- 
tendance, habits which had, without doubt, passed 
unobserved and unreproved at home, but which Mr. 

11 


122 


BEECH BLUFF. 


Eichards never tolerated in his school. Mary 
seems to have a strong, natural sense of propriety 
about her dress and deportment, and Martha is fast 
acquiring it.” A pause. “Aunt Cilia, will you 
draw off this stocking? How quickly his blood was 
up when he thought I doubted his generosity, and 
expected he would require me to remain two weeks 
over the stipulated two years! What a construction 
to put on my simple words I Who ever heard of a 
governess petitioning her employer to allow her to 
commence her work? And the result — a scene! 
I wonder if this would come under the head of 
shabby treatment? Put up the curtain, if you 
please. Aunt Cilia and, as the moonlight streams 
into the room, and the kind attendant closes the 
door, we will let the curtain fall, and leave Edith 
to her dreams. 


CH APTEE IX. 

STUMBLING BLOCKS. 

It is tlie Fourteenth of August, and we find 
Edith with Mary and Martha, six miles from home, 
decorating the altars of the Church of the “ Assump- 
tion” preparatory to the morrow’s festival; w;onder- 
ful wreaths, and dowry garlands have been woven, 
numberless candles have been arranged, and the new 
altar linens of Edith’s furnishing have taken the 
place of those yellowed by their year of service. A 
high arch has been erected over the Altar of Our 
Lady, and covered and festooned with evergreens, 
and dotted with candles, it screens the bare boards 
which, as yet, furnish the only altar-piece, in 
that rude building. A new lace trimmed scarf of 
soft white muslin has found its way from Edith’s 
trunk — and drapes the statue of the Blessed Virgin ; 
on each side are plants in full blossom, and around 
are the empty vases waiting for the flowers to be 
brought fresh in the morning. The back ground of 
the sanctury is a perfect net work of vines and 
branches of green leaves, and in the very centre 
above the tabernacle, is a large cross of the least 
perishable flowers. The whole arrangement shows 
the most loving care, and dilligence. 

The girls gaze in admiration, of their successful 
efforts to beautify and adorn that humble temple of 
the Lord, whom they would receive on the follow- 
ing morning in their first Holy communion. All 
day they have been there and laboured without 


124 : 


BEECH BLUFF. 


pause, and now that everything is complete they 
rest upon the doorsteps and watched Edith inside 
give the last finishing touches. The sun is cpiite 
on the decline, and throws it beams in the door- 
way upon the weary girls — and through the church 
to the very spot where Edith is kneeling to say a 
parting prayer. 

“ Let us say one decade of our beads before we 
go,” said Mary, and the sisters go in quietly and 
sink upon their knees before the statue of our 
Blessed Mother. Their thoughts had gone back to 
the mother who one year before had so suddenly 
been taken from them, and they prayed for the 
departed. A shadow fell across the threshold ; Mr. 
Ellis looked in upon the beautiful scene — and not 
without emotion. “ What could be more lovely ?” 
he mentally ejaculated, and turning away repeated 
Mrs. Hemans beautiful lines descriptive of an altar 
in the “ Forest Sanctuary.” 

^wliat glimmer’d faintly on my sight, 

Faintly, yet brightening, as a wreath of snow 
Seen through dissolving haze ? — The moon, the night, 
Had waned, and dawn poured in ; — grey, shadowy, 
slow. 

Yet day-spring still ! — a solemn hue it caught. 

Piercing the storied windows ; darkly fraught 
With stoles and draperies of imperial glow ; 

And soft, and sad, that coloring gleam was thrown, 
Where, pale, a pictur’d form above the altar shone. 

He paused again before the open door, and said 
almost audibly, “ No pictured form above the altar” 
here but that cross in its “lone brightness” sheds 
its fragrance over all — ” again he went over the 
lines descriptive of the picture representing Him who 
“ as o’er glass, didst walk that stormy sea” 


STUMBLING BLOCKS.’ 


125 


(( 

and repeated more than once “ aid for one sinhing^' 

I perish — saveP^ 

The ride home was quiet, for all were tired, even 
Mr. Ellis who had ridden far that day and made it 
in his way, though it was much out of it, to return 
to Beach Bluff by the way of the Church, in order 
to escort his daughters and Miss Edith, and thereby 
dispense with Uncle Sigh’s attendance. 

“ A penny for your thoughts Miss Edith” at 
length said Mr. Ellis riding beside her. 

She started, and colored — “ you might not think 
them worth the penny.” 

“Let me be the judge of their nature,” he replied 
smiling. 

“You, might think me guilty of an impertinence, 
if I were to give them expression,” she answered 
quite gravely. 

“ You make me curious, to know,^and I beg you 
to tell me.” 

“ I was thinking how very strange it is you do 
not follow in the footsteps of your wife who you ac- 
knowledge received so much consolation- from our 
Holy Keligion — tho’ she was permitted to enjoy it 
but for a brief time in the church militant.” 

“ She believed in all that the church .believes and 
teaches. I cannot, though God knows I would if I 
could.” 

“You can not of yourself, certainly.^’ 

“ To believe, must, depend upon the will of him 
who believes,” said Mr. Ellis. 

“ So St. Thomas says, but he adds that “ the will 
of man must be prepared by God through grace,” 


126 


BEECH BLUFF. 


and St. Paul says, “ For by grace you are saved 
tlirough faith, and that not of yourselves, for it is 
the gift of God,’’ returned Edith. 

“ I have once before said, that if faith be good 
for me, why is it not bestowed if it be a gift of 
God?” 

“ It depends upon the disposition of your will, 
whether you reject or accept the truths as presented 
to you.” 

Iremenber you once said that you considered me 
in a “ good disposition or something to that effect.” 

“ So I did and do, and it surprises me that being 
in this disposition you should be so spiritually in- 
dolent. Why do you not submit your doubts and 
difficulties to Mr. Ward? lean not believe that 
you are such a doubting Thomas as you would 
have me to believe. Else why are you having 
your children reared in the faith ? you cannot be 
so unreasonable as to think that one path will serve 
them, — another you — and each will lead to Glory ? 
you would show yourself opposed to Scripture 
which says there is but Orie Faith, One Baptism.” 

“ There seems a great want of charity in believ- 
ing that all out of your faith must be lost, which I 
believe is one of your dogmas, one which I cannot 
reconcile myself to.” 

“ You are not required to believe anything of 
the kind ; God would not condemn souls invincibly 
ignorant, if such there be. Those who have lead 
as perfect a life as possible, observing God’s 
laws, and are unavoidably ignorant of the “ One 
Faith, One Baptism,” may with the help of Di- 
vine grace obtain that for which they strive — 


“ STUMBLING BLOCKS.” 127 

Eternal Life — But one who has the truth presented 
to him, and rejects it from blind prejudice, refuses 
to seek explanation of whatever is obscure to his 
mind, and who, not making use of the means at 
his disposal to arrive at the truth, dies in presump- 
tuous ignorance, has failed in his duty both to God 
and to himself, and, God will judge him accordingly. 

“ Are you improvising ?” asked Mr. Ellis, as Edith 
went on elucidating the particular points which her 
companion presented as stumbling-blocks, some of 
which were simply points of Catholic discipline, 
which had become bug-bears, arresting him half 
way notwithstanding that he had found so much in 
the teachings of the church to command his ad- 
miration. 

“ I am not ; what I am saying is to be found in 
almost any work of Catholic instruction; some 
Theologian has said that, “ God never gathers 
where he has not sown.” Willing that all men be 
saved he offers to each and all the grace indispensi- 
ble to salvation ; if it be rejected, cast away, than 
will the “ gates of light” be forever closed. God 
never demands impossibilities. He makes a kind 
provision for those souls who by reason of their 
surroundings, circumstances beyond their control, 
are prevented from ever knowing the truth ; if they 
act according to the light and grace they receive, be 
the light ever so dim, then are they faithful ser- 
vants, and worthy to enter into the joy of their 
Lord ; how much more worthy than those, who 
having every opportunity of becoming enlightened, 
yet remain invincibly ignorant ; brought face to face 


128 


BEECH BLUFF. 


with the great truths revealed by (jrod, yet turn their 
backs upon them; receiving God’s grace, yet 
smothering its growth by refusing to correspond 
with it. Pride is the cause of more than half the 
ignorance in the world of the Catholic Faith ; one 
accustomed to rely solely upon his own guidance, 
and to be guided by his own light, resents the 
thought of receiving enlightenment, from another. 
There is something monstrously opposed to his 
dignity in becoming “as a little child,” and submit- 
ting to be taught ; therefore he declines to seek 
counsel, to reveal the questionings of his mind, 
perhaps desires of his heart, to learn from some one 
of those teachers, whose lives are given to the work 
of supplying light (themselves enlightened by long 
years of study,) to the gropers after truth.” 

Ever eloquent on the theme of her E-eligion 
Edith, now that Mr. Ellis had drawn her out, spoke 
with warmth and to the purpose. There was a long 
pause. The girls had galloped on far ahead, and 
in the distance could be seen the tall Beech trees of 
the Bluff* ; suddenly Edith turned and laying the 
handle of her whip on the arm of her companion, 
she looked pleadingly in his face and said in a low 
earnest voice. 

“ If you go on forever groping, the light may break 
suddenly, when it is too late.” 

He started slightly, touched his own horse lightly 
with his whip, then gave the same hint to Edith’s 
pony and they rode rapidly forward for a few 
moments ; at length, riding again more slowly, he 
broke the silence. 


“ STUMBLING BLOCKS.” 129 

“Your last words reminded me of an incident 
which occurred not long since. I was travelino- in 
the west, and stopped over night at a house situated 
on the bank of a small stream ; early in the morn- 
ing I went out on the porch; scarcely had I seated 
myself when an old man ascended the steps and 
took a seat near me. We had entered into conver- 
sation with that informality which characterises 
travelers generally, when a voice, clear and power- 
ful, sent forth such a strain of melody that we 
ceased speaking and listened. It came apparently 
from the window above the porch, and was echoed 
back from the hills across the narrow river ; the 
only words I heard distinctly were those of the 
refrain, 

“ Too late^ too late^ ye cannot enter hereT 

Back from the other side came the echo — “ enter 
here.” 

The old man laid his hand upon my shoulder 
and said. 

“ That is a voice from the other shore — does it 
speak to you or to me? let us hope to both for it 
cannot enter into the mind of man to conceive of 
the misery of those souls sh ut forever out of heaven.” 

“Judging from your appearance, my friend I re- 
plied, you at least cannot be far off from that ‘ other 
shore’ you speak of.” 

“ It is not a matter of age, not a matter of age ; 
I see, every day the young dropping around me, 
and I am still left to cumber the earth — God knows 
why; I am on my way now to see the ‘Black Kobe’ 
as the Indians call the Priest who has a mission 


130 


BEECH BLUFF. 


Churcli below here ; I have seen him before — many 
times, and each time I think will be the last ; I came 
at the eleventh hour, and am giving but the feeblest 
part of my life to Him who has given length of days 
to me; I am indeed ‘ too late’ to do Him much service 
on earth, but not too late I trust to glorify Him even- 
tually in. Heaven. His goodness exceeds our sinful- 
ness.” The old man’s horse was led to the steps, and 
he rose to depart. ‘ Good day — my friend, good day 
— I hope to meet you on the other shore' and added 
impressively “ don’t be ‘ too late' " 

On my return some weeks after, I again remained 
over night at the same house ; at the breakfast table 
was one whom I recognized, by his cloth, I suppose 
you would say, to be a priest ; I remembered my 
old friend of the porch, and presumed the clergy- 
man present to be the “ Black Kobe” he had alluded 
to — I was interested in the stranger of the previous 
visit, and ventured to make some enquiries. The 
old man was dead — the priest was on his return 
from performing the last rites of the Church. I 
never hear the words too late without also hearing 
the echo as we heard it, — the old man and I — that 
morning, return to us so distinctly from the hills 
beyond the river . — Enter here!" 


CHAPTER X. 


CHANGE OF SCENE. 

“ Thrre was pride in the head she carried so high, 

Pride in her lip, and pride in her eye, 

And a world of pride in the very sigh 
That her stately bosom was fretting.” 

“The pith o’ sense, and pride o’ wrath, 

Are higher ranks than a’ that. 

Months have elapsed since Edith commenced 
the daily routine of school work, and on the morn- 
ing before Christmas we find her and her two pupils 
dressed for a short journey ; they are going to Au- 
gusta to spend the holidays, and as they stand 
before the sitting-room grate, drawing on their 
gloves, Martha and Mary bewail the inopportune 
illness of the overseer, which prevents their father 
from accompanying them in this their annual 
visit to their aunt. 

Since the interview recorded in the last chapter 
between Edith and Mr. Ellis, they have seldom met 
save at meals, for Mr. Ellis’s time has been wholly 
occupied with plantation affairs, the whole charge 
of which has devolved upon him ; but he promises 
to follow them as soon as pos.sible, and, as he places 
his daughters in the carriage, he smilingly bids them 
not to allow Cousin Fred to run off* with Miss 
Edith ; and then, pressing a small gloved hand a 
moment in his own, he bids them all good-by, and 
stands watching the carriage as it rolls down the 
avenue. Something very like a sigh escapes him 


BEECH BLUFF. 


132 

as he enters the house, and the words, “ pride, Mor-, 
gan, unavoidable, Frederick,” etc., are muttered as 
he slowly paces up and down the library with 
folded arms and anxious hxce. 

It was one o’clock when the carriage stopped 
before an elegant mansion, the door of which was 
thrown open by a stout, pompous-looking colored 
man, who ushered our young friends into a small 
reception room ; then, opening the door of an 
adjoining apartment, he called out, “Mr. Jacob’s 
family hab arrived and a large, majestic looking 
lady arose from her seat before the fire, and ad- 
vancing a few steps, said, “ Come into the parlor, 
my dears.” She embraced her nieces, and then, 
turning to Edith, said, with a haughty inclination 
of her head, “ The governess, I presume. Matty, 
my dear, the name, if you please.” 

“ Miss Edith, Aunt Martha.” 

“ Miss Edith, I hope you’ll make yourself com- 
fortable, and feel at home with your charges here. 
Mary, when will your father arrive?” 

‘T don’t know. Aunt Martha; next week, per- 
haps.” 

“Ah, I am extremely sorry that Snyder is ill ; T 
was in hopes that this visit would have cheered 
your fixther somewhat; but if he only remains a 
day or two, we cannot effect much in that short 
time.” While she spoke, she was scanning Edith 
closely, with a cold, proud look. Keseating herself, 
she said, “You will find your cousin up stairs, 
girls. You had better go up and dress for dinner; 
to your old room, Martha, and — Christopher” 


CHANGE OF SCENE. 133 

(calling to the porter in the hall), “ show Miss 
Edith — this lady — to the green-room.’^ 

“ Oh, Aunt Martha, please let Miss Edith have 
the room next to ours,” said Matty and Mary in the 
same breath. 

“No, my dears; the room next to the one you 
always occupy is reserved for Emily Owen.” 

“ When is she coming,” asked Matty, with a look 
which was indicative of anything but pleasure at 
the prospect of such an acquisition to their Christ- 
mas circle. 

“ We expect her to-morrow,’’ replied her aunt. 

“ Well, Aunt Martha, please let Miss Edith 
sleep in that room to-night,” said Matty, in a coax- 
ing tone. 

“I have had the green-room prepared for your 
governess, and” — with another haughty bow to 
Edith — “ I presume she will have no objections to 
taking immediate possession of it.” 

“Certainly not,” said Edith. And without more 
words, they followed the stout waiter out of the 
room. 

“ I’ll come over as soon as ever I get dressed,” 
said Matty, running after Edith ; and then she dis- 
appeared with her sister through an arched door- 
way, and as Edith walked in another direction, she 
heard their voices and feet as they ran up stairs. 

The green-room was a small apartment, having 
one window draped with green chintz, under 
which was a green Venetian blind, which rendered 
the room quite dark. Drawing back the curtains, 
Edith let in the sunlight, which danced on the green 
12 


184 


BEECH BLUFF. 


wall, aod revealed aa ingrain carpet and chairs of 
the same verdant hue. 

“ What was this room ever intended for?” asked 
Edith of herself, as she slowly untied her bonnet 
strings, and looked up at the dark ceiling. “Weak 
eyes, probably,” herself answered; and, apparently 
satisfied with this solution, she walked to the win- 
dow and looked out. “Nothing to be seen but two 
or three cabins and some brick walls beyond ; not 
an evergreen in sight without doors,” she said, again 
addressing herself. “The girls’ room is probably 
in front; this is certainly in the rear, and those 
were back stairs that I came up. I see plainly 
that governesses are, as George would say, below 
par in this quarter — obviously below the state of 
equality in Mrs. Morgan’s estimation.” She looked 
around the room again and walked to the small Frank- 
lin stove which stood in the fireplace, looking as 
cold and uninviting as did- the mistress of the house 
herself. “Well, I must keep down my pride for 
two weeks, and submit to their being proud with 
me” — and she poked the dying embers vigorously. 
“ This is a cool reception in -every sense of the word. 
I wonder if there is any coal or wood up here.” 
Not finding any, she pulled the green bell-cord, 
and a pert-looking mulatto girl obeyed the sum- 
mons. 

“ Will you bring me up some wood ? my fire is 
almost out.” 

Without answering, the girl wheeled around, and 
almost ran against Martha, who was coming through 
the narrow entry. 


CHANGE OF SCENE. 


135 


“ Dat you, Miss Matty ?’^ 

“ Yes Tiak. How do you do ?” 

“Right smart, Miss Matty. Jis gwiue down 
stairs arter some wood for de gobness’s fire.” 

“Look here, Tink” — catching hold of the negro 
girl’s arm as she was about to shuffle down stairs — ^ 
“ the lady in the green-room is Miss Edith^ and if 
you say governess again. I’ll forbid Nelly speaking 
to you while she is here.” 

“ Miss Edom, is it ? I didn’t know afore ; I . 
heard missus call her gobness, and I tot dat it was 
some gobner’s lady.” 

“Now, Tink, you know that’s a fib. But go 
about your business, and be smart with the wood.” 

“ Isn’t this horrid. Miss Edith ? Green, greener, 
greenest!” — pointing to the curtains, wall, and 
carpet. “ I’m glad that horrid green bedstead is 
gone 1” 

“Why was this room furnished thus, Matty?” 

“ Just Aunt Martha’s fancy, I reckon,” said Mar- 
tha, taking the poker and writing in the ashes. 
“ How do you like Aunt Martha?” she asked, with 
out looking up. 

“ I am not able to judge yet, dear,” replied Edith. 

“Well” — suddenly throwing down the poker — 
“ I like her less than I ever did. Mary and I were 
always pleased to come here, because Christmas 
times Uncle Morgan always has so much fun going 
on. But we were never fond of Aunt Martha; she 
is so stiff*; and I positively dislike her now.’’ 

“ No, Matty, you do not dislike your aunt ; you 


136 


BEECH BLUFF. 


are only a little offended because our rooms are not 
adjoining,” said Edith, quietly. 

“Yes, i know that I am offended at that; but ‘I 
do hate a proud man, as I hate the engendering, of 
toads.^ I read that in Shakspeare one day when 
papa left the book open on the table, and I thought 
of it to-day when” — she hesitated, and her manner 
became embarrassed. 

“ When what?” asked Edith, understanding what 
was in Matty’s mind, but wishing to bring her to 
the point at once. 

Martha looked up, and her face flushed; then 
she stooped and picked up the poker, and said, as 
she made a plunge at the ashes, “ Why, when she 
spoke to you. Miss Edith” 

“ Matty,” said Edith, sitting down and drawing 
Martha to her side, “I am glad, dear, that you 
have spoken frankly, a.nd I will take this opportu- 
nity to tell you that I hope you will not allow your 
aunt’s manner towards me to influence your con- 
duct towards her in the least, for it would give me 
great pain to witness any disrespect or resentment 
on your part, and besides it would render my posi- 
tion here only the more awkward.” Edith knew 
that this was the best argument she could use, 
and she was glad to see that it had the desired 
effect. 

“ Well, Miss Edith, I won’t do or say anything 
to make you feel disagreeable ; but I would like 
Aunt Martha and Nora to know that I haven’t any 
of Aunt Martha’s scornful pride, if I do look like 
her. I know,” she added, understanding Edith’s 


CHANGE OF SCENE. 


137 


significant smile, “I know, Miss Edith, that I look 
proud, but I never feel as Aunt Martha and Leonora 
act^ except to them ; I have a proud contempt for 
such people as they are, and indeed. Miss Edith, I 
m*ust say it, it gives me pleasure to annoy them 
sometimes. And besides Miss Edith, Aunt Martha 
is from the north herself — Uncle Jacob married her 
in New York. 

“Edith looked very grave, and shook her head. 

“I understand now,” continued Matty, “why pa- 
pa did not wish us to come to Augusta this Christ- 
mas, and why he wrote to Uncle Morgan inviting 
him to bring his family to the Bluff'; but Aunt 
Martha would not consent to any such arrange- 
ment, because Nora was promised a party on New 
Year’s Eve; she will be eighteen then, and she is 
just precisely like her mother. Cousin Fred — he 
is twenty-two — is like Uncle Morgan; they sly q vny 
style! So full of fun! — just the nicest people in 
the world. I reckon we’ll have a nice time, after 
all.” And she looked up with a smile. 

“ Yes, dear, I dare say the two weeks will pass 
pleasantly enough. You must not give yourself 
any uneasiness on my account, for I shall not allow 
your aunt’s coldness to make me unhappy, I assure 
you. But where is Mary?” 

“Getting dressed. Nelly was not ready to plait 
my hair, and sol ran over here. We are not going 
down stairs until you are ready.” 

“I will not be long dressing,” said Edith. And 
she went to the table, which was covered with green 
chintz, and, taking her combs and brushes from a 


138 


BEECH BLUFF. 


traveling basket, sbe commenced to comb and ar- 
range her hair. Tink came in with the wood, and 
soon had a cheerful fire built in the stove, and, taking 
the pitcher, shuffled out of the room and returned 
in about half an hour with water. Mary came m 
just as Edith’s toilet was completed, and kissed her 
as affectionately as though they had been separated 
for a day ; as they passed through the narrow dimly- 
lighted entry into the more spacious hall leading to 
the front rooms, she said, as she skipped along before 
Edith : — ■ 

“ The front part of the house is so much plea- 
santer than the back. This is always our room” — 
tlirowing open the door of the room assigned to her- 
self and Matty. “I wish- there were two beds in 
here ; then you could be with us.” 

“Yes, Miss Eden,” said Nelly, who was plaiting 
Matty’s hair, “it was right mean of Miss Morgan to 
put you in dat hole ob a closet; no nigger would 
sleep dar, I know. Dar, Miss Matty, it’s did. Now 
put on your dress, honey.” 

“ How do I look in this gown. Miss Edith ? It 
feels very queer, so high up in the neck.” 

“ You look very well, Matty; much better than - 
in low bodies, and that white frill is very becoming, 
and looks neat.” And indeed she looked much 
better than Edith had ever seen her. The snugly- 
fitting habit gave more symmetry to her figure, and 
the fine white cambric frills around the throat and 
short sleeves of the dress gave it a youthful appear- 
ance. 

“Miss Nora hab done gwine down, Miss Mary,” 


CHANGE OF SCENE. 139 

said Nelly, as Mary was about to rap at her cousin’s 
door. 

They are all in the parlor, I dare say, and Cousin 
Leonora will look at us, and bite her lips, and toss 
her head; I always dislike to go into the room 
when they are all together,” said Mary. 

“/ don’t then, for I can give as many tosses as 
Cousin Nora,” returned Martha, stepping proudly 
across the hall, adjusting her jet bracelets, and 
glancing over her shoulder at the skirt of her dress, 
which quite touched the floor. 

As Mary had predicted, the family were assem- 
bled in the parlor, and as their visitors walked up 
the long room to the fireplace, around which they 
were seated, an elderly gentleman arose, and ex- 
tending both hands said, as he shook the girl’s 
hands, and kissed them on the cheek in a demon- 
strative manner, “ Glad to see you ! Bless me, how 
you’ve grown, both of you! And you. Blush- 
rose, why you’re as pink as ever, my little beauty! 

And my buxom queen here is a woman grown, 
I declare! Stand off, Matty, and let me look at you! 
looks eighteen, by George! But where are all your 
freckles?” 

“Gone to sour milk, uncle.” 

“ Sour milk ! Ha ! ha ! So, somebody has’ struck 
a vein of vanity? All right, Matty! don’t blush, 
my dear, but bow to every pan of bonny-clabber 
you come across, for it’s done a heap for your good 
looks.” Then, advancing a step forward, he ex- 
tended his hand to Edith and said, in a more quiet 
manner, “And this -is?” 


140 


BEECH BLUFF. 


“ Miss Edith Stanford, Uncle Morgan.” 

“ Ah, Miss Stanford, I am pleased to see yon.” 
And he shook her hand warmly, and, turning to 
his daughter, said, “My daughter. Miss Stanford, 
my son — and — I believe you have already met 
with Mrs. Morgan.” 

His frank, open countenance and cordial manner 
had the effect of placing Edith quite at her ease, 
and she returned the lofty bow of Miss Nora with 
graceful self-possession, and smiled in recognition 
of Mrs. Morgan, who bowed, and murmured “ Miss 
Edith,” as if the fact of their having met an hour 
before had quite escaped her mind. 

“ My son,” otherwise Mr. Frederick Morgan, was 
leaning against the mantle, twirling the ends of his 
heavy black moustache between his fingers, and 
gazing thoughtfully into the fire. When his cou- 
sins entered the room he turned and looked at his 
sister with a quick, inquiring glance, then, perceiv- 
ing that she had no intention of going forward to 
receive them, he made a movement to do so him- 
self, when his father suddenly started up and met 
them as I have described. Fred gave them a wel- 
come equally as cordial if not quite as boisterous as 
his fixthe.Fs, and, when introduced to Edith, he 
bowed with a degree of deference and slight diffi- 
dence in his manner, which did not partake of his 
mother's hauteur or his father’s familiarity, but 
which indicated that he recognized .her as their 
equal; and, when she was seated on the sofa in 
conversation with his father, he scanned her face as 
closely as his mother had done, but there was noth- 


CHANGE OF SCENE. 141 

ing rude or impolite in his gaze, but a degree of 
respectful admiration, which could not have offen- 
ded the most fastidious. 

Mary sat down beside Edith, and Martha stood 
before her cousins and entered into an animated 
conversation with them, while Mr. Morgan asked 
questions about the Bluff, and talked with Edith as 
unreservedly as though she were an old acquain- 
tance. Mrs. Morgan held a small screen before her 
face, and, turning her head, examined her nieces 
with a critical eye, and then looked at her daughter 
with an expression of intense satisfaction. Leonora 
was a tall, dark looking girl, who, without having 
any claims to the term beautiful^ was striking, styl- 
ish looking; she had that air of high breeding which 
as an outward show, usually distinguishes the mem- 
bers of a family of long established position and 
wealth, and which never fails to be recognized by 
the educated and refined, and is generally a pass- 
port in good society, even when not backed by 
wealth. She was elaborately dressed, and with her 
dark hair and flashing eyes looked very brilliant 
beside her fair-faced, simply-dressed cousin; but 
Leonora was eighteen, and Matty scarcely fifteen. 
Edith, who had noticed Mrs. Morgan’s expression 
of countenance and divined that she was drawing 
comparisons unfavorable to Matty, thought, as she 
looked at the two, that three years would effect a 
wonderful change in the latter judging from the 
rap'id development of her mind within the past few 
months, as well as the improvement in her personal 
appearance and increasing refinement of manner. 


142 BEECH BLUFF. 

Wonderful, indeed I “Man proposes and God dis- 
poses.” 

“ Martha,” said Mr. Morgan, turning from the 
sofa and addressing his wife, “do you not think that 
Mary grows like her father ?” 

“ Grows like him ! why, she is his perfect image,” 
responded Mrs. Morgan, and she looked at Mary 
with a very pleasant smile. 

“ A very lovely image, certainly,” thought Edith, 
and she smoothed the brown hair caressingly. 
“But such an one will never create a sensation in 
society ; she is one of those ‘ gems of purest ray 
serene,’ whose brightest lustre is shed around the 
domestic hearth, warming the hearts of all who come 
within its influence. This little one is formed for 
love, not admiration’’ — and she pressed the little 
hand affectionately, which was laid so confidingly in 
her own. 

The parlor doors were thrown open suddenly, 
and “ Dinner 1” was announced by Christopher in a 
loud tone. 

“ Will Christopher never lose his hotel manners?” 
said Mrs. Morgan, as she arose and preceded the 
others to the dining room. “I don’t know but we’ll 
have to put him below, awhile, until he is subdued 
a trifle, for, I declare, I cannot tolerate him.” 

“ Who are you speaking of, mother? Kit ?” asked 
Fred. 

“ Yes ! I advise your father never to get another 
servant from a hotel to put him in the house, for he 
gives it the appearance of a boarding-house,” 

“ Come Fred, exert yourself for once, and escort 


CHANGE OP SCENE. 


143 


your sister and cousin into the dining-room,’^ said 
Mr. Morgan, offering Edith his arm and taking 
Mary by the hand. “I’ll tell you what it is, Matty, 
you’ll have to stir Fred up while he is here, for he 
is abominably lazy.” 

“Yes, Matty,” said Fred, moving from his place 
and putting out his elbow, “you must stir us all up, 
for we are insufferably dull.” 

Matty and Leonora darted past Fred, who said 
that Nora knew the way, and he would only take 
Matty, and, laughing at his look of astonishment, 
ran out through a side door. 

“ That’s decidedly cool,” said he, looking after 
them. “ Mary, you take my arm, for I have it set- 
tled for some one, and it’s a pity to go alone after 
taking that trouble.” And he walked up to Mary, 
and, pulling her hand through his arm, walked 
quickly through the hall, saying that he felt con- 
siderably stirred up already. 

During dinner, Mrs. Morgan and her daughter 
made the New Year’s party the subject of conver- 
sation between themselves. Fred and Matty sat op- 
posite to each other, and carried on a war of words. 
Edith sat beside Mr. Morgan, and was not ad- 
dressed by any one save him and Martha, who 
made an occasional appeal to her to defend her 
against Fred’s impudence. 

“Just think. Miss Edith, he says that I weigh as 
much as Christopher. You oughtn’t to allow me 
to be so insulted.” 

“ I think you can defend yourself pretty well. 


144 


BEECH BLUFF. 


Matty, said Mr. Morgan. “ Ask him what his own 
weight is.’’ 

“Witches’ weight, I reckon,” said Martha; and 
the laugh was turned against the young gentleman, 
who, like all thin people, was ambitious of being 
stout. 

“ Have you learned to play any, yet,” asked Kora 
of Matty, when she and her mother had determined 
upon the arrangements for Kew Year’s Eve. 

“Yes, very well, indeed,” returned Martha, glanc- 
ing at Edith. 

'Fred opened his eyes and looked at his opposite 
with an expression that said, “ Is it possible !” 

“Indeed I do play rea? tvell^ Cousin Fred,” she 
said, tossing her head. “Papa thinks that I have 
learned ex-tra-or-din-a-ri-ly well,” nodding her head 
at every syllable of the long adverb. 

“Who is your music teacher?” Fred asked, for- 
getting, probably, that the governess taught music 
as well as other branches. 

“My music teacher ! Why, Cousin Fred, Miss 
Edith, of course; and that’s the reason why I play 
so well, considering the little' tuition I’ve had.” 
Then, after a pause, she added: “Papa thinks Miss 
Edith is the best player and sweetest singer he ever 
heard.” 

“0 Matty!” Edith could not help exclaiming, 
for she more than half suspected that Matty’s zeal 
in her cause had led her to exaggerate the truth. 

“Indeed, it’s true, Miss Edith, for I heard papa 
tell Father Ward so last Sunday morning; the 
very best amateur performer that he ever heard.” 


CHANGE OF SCENE. 145 

And she looked at her aunt and cousin with a face 
that said, “What do you think of that?” 

Neither of the ladies spoke, but looked curiously 
out of the window, though nothing of interest was 
to be seen in that direction. Mr. Morgan said — • 

“Ah, indeed! I hope Miss Edith will give us 
an opportunity to judge after dinner; we are all 
passionate lovers of music here ; Fred, there, is at 
the head of all the musical soirees in the city; and 
Nora is no had performer herself. I am very fond 
of music, and so is Mrs. Morgan, but neither of us 
professes to be a judge.” 

“Mr. Ellis overrates my abilities,” replied Edith, 
though she did not forget that, as the best performer 

at B Seminary, she had carried off the prize 

from a score of competitors. 

The ladies retired as soon as the cloth was re- 
moved, but the gentlemen lingered over their wine, 
and did not join them in the parlor until the chan- 
delier was lighted. Mrs. Morgan had fallen asleep, 
and her stately head was nodding to the polished 
andirons when her husband and son entered the 
room. Martha and Nora were in the reception- 
room, and Edith and Mary were seated at the centre- 
table reading. 

“ Now, Mary, let us hear what you have learned ! 
Play your best piece, and then we’ll have Matty at 
the instrument,” said Mr. Morgan, throwing him- 
self on the sofa. 

Mary hesitated, and looked at Edith. “Go, my 
dear,” said Edith, and she sat down at the piano, 
which her cousin Fred opened, and after striking 


146 


BEECH BLUFF. 


the keys in an undecided manner at first, she felt 
more assured as Edith arose and stood beside her, 
and played through the simple piece without making 
any blunders. 

“ Capital 1 Why, Mary, you played like a pro- 
fessor!” said her uncle, patting her cheek. “Now 
we must have Matty at it.” And calling his daugh- 
ter, who came into the room followed by Martha, 
he said : “ Come, girls, now is your turn ! Mary has 
been entertaining us, and you must let us hear what 
you can do. Sit down, Matty, and then Nora will 
play some of her fantasias.''' 

Without any hesitation or embarrassment, Matty 
seated herself at the piano, and after playing a short 
prelude, commenced singing a popular song. At 
the second verse, her uncle joined in, and sang it 
through with considerable fervor. Martha’s voice 
was sweet and full, and she sang with more expres- 
sion than many persons after years of study. Mrs. 
Ellis had taught her daughters all the rudiments of 
music, and Edith had found them farther advanced 
than she was led to expect from what their father 
had said. She put them at once to the learning of 
easy pieces; daily practice under her constant super- 
vision had effected much. Contrary to Mr. Ellis’s 
or Edith’s expectation^ Martha’s application quite 
equalled her talent, and thus her progress had been 
facilitated. 

Mary applied herself equally as well, and indeed 
often practiced an extra hour after the expiration 
of the time assigned to her; but she might give the 
greater part of her time to the study of music, and 


CHANGE OF SCENE. 


147 


become perfect mistress of the science but the art 
she would never acquire in any great degree, or by 
any amount of practice, become anything but a 
mediocre performer ; for she lacked both the ease 
and taste that Martha posessed, and her touch was 
merely mechanical, like the act of the street per- 
former’s hand in turning his hurdy gurdy. 

Mr. Morgan was quite enthusiastic in his applause 
of Matty’s singing, and Fred patted her head in a 
patronizing manner and called her a “ Nightingale,” 
“ Fat Swan,” etc. 

“Now, Nora,” said Mr. Morgan. . And the young 
lady sat down on the stool, spread out her dress 
and arranged her music before her, and with the 
air of a public singer commenced a cavatina in 
Italian, which seemed to be interminable, notwith- 
standing that her voice was good and she sang with 
considerable taste; but the accompaniment was exe- 
cuted without any mercy on the piano-strings, and 
whatever merit there was in her sinking was more 
than counterbalanced by the defects in her playing. 
After the song vvas finished she pounded out some 
polkas and waltzes, which were perfectly stunning.- 
Tea was announced, and she arose from her seat 
and looked as if she expected Edith to applaud her 
performance, but seemed satisfied with the look of 
surprise that was on Edith’s face, and which she 
mistook for astonishment at her skill. Looking on 
her with rather more complacency, she said, “ You 
will play after tea, will you not. Miss Edith?” — not 
doubting, however that she would decline after such 
a brilliant performance as her own. 


148 


BEECH BLUFF. 


‘‘Yes/’ said Matty, “Miss Edith and Cousin Fred 
will both play.” And she caught hold of her 
teacher’s hand and looked up into her face, her eyes 
sparkling in anticipation of Nora’s discomfiture. 

Did you speak to me, Matty ?” asked Fred, 
starting up and looking around as if slightly bewil*. 
dered. . 

“You’ve been asleep. Cousin Fred, I declare ! A 
pretty compliment to your sister’s playing!” said 
Matty. 

“ ’Pon my word, I haven^t been asleep ; but I 
was in Europe just then, and you called me home. 
What do you wish ?” 

“ I wish you to play, after tea, on that instrument. 
Do you understand?” 

“Oh! certainly, certainly. Anything more?” 

“Yes. Come to tea.” And, taking his arm, they 
went into the tea-room, which adjoined ' the parlor. 

Christopher brought in some papers, and as soon 
as the tea things were removed Mr. Morgan and 
Fred were absorbed in the news. Mrs. Morgan 
became interested in a book of fashions, and Nora 
and her cousins returned to the parlor. 

“Come, Miss Edith, won’t you please play now ?” 
said Martha, turning as she reached the door. 

“ Permit me to lead you to the piano. Miss Stan- 
ford,” said Mr. Morgan, laying down his paper and 
starting from his seat. 

Mrs. Morgan looked up with a cold smile, and, 
taking her book, followed them into the next room. 
Fred alone remained in the tea-room. 

“ Perhaps you can play some of my pieces,” said 


CHANGE OF SCENE. 149 

Nora. And she drew a large book from the stand, 
and laid it on the piano. 

Edith was looking over some loose music, and, 
selecting a piece, said, “ Do you play this. Miss 
Nora?’’ 

“Let me see. 0 no! That’s one of Signor 
Ca vein’s pieces ; nobody can play that creditably 
but himself. 

It chanced to be Edith’s chef d'oeuvre in perfor- 
mance; and, placing the music before her, she com- 
menced, to Nora’s undisguised astonishment, what 
nobody could play but Signor Cavelli. ■ 

“ Thank you, Miss Stanford,” said Fred, who had 
entered the parlor very quietly, and was standing 
directly behind her. “ Such music is a treat, after 
Nora’s banging.” 

“You didn’t go to Europe, then!” said Matty, 
mischievously. * 

“ I only go to get rid of ‘ such notes as I never 
indorse;’ when Nora begins to play. I’m off,” 

Mrs. Morgan had been called into the tea-room, 
and Nora had followed her mother without vouch- 
safing a word of thanks to Edith. Indeed the sig- 
nificant looks that passed between the mother and 
daughter indicated, not only that they felt no plea- 
sure in the discovery that a governess excelled the 
daughter of the wealthy Greorgian, but that they 
considered her superior attainments a personal in- 
sult to themselves. 

“ You positively must sing for us,” said Fred, as 
Edith was about to rise from her seat. 

“ For me. Miss Edith,” said Mr. Morgan. And 


150 


BEECH BLUFF. 


she complied, thongh unwillingly, for, with woman’s 
instinct, she had discovered that her music did not 
give pleasure to the ladies ; not belonging to that 
class of females who, in their desire to please the 
gentlemen, are regardless of the opinion of their 
own sex, she felt rather mortified at Leon ora’s abrupt 
departure from the room, instead of being elated at 
the involuntary acknowledment of the excellence 
of her playing. She did not sing with her 
usual ability, for she felt the influence of the 
cold looks of Mrs. Morgan and her daughter, 
who could not, with any degree of politeness, re- 
main in the tea-room when they were called by 
Mr. Morgan to come into the parlor and hear the 
song. The consciousness that she was doing her 
very worst did not add to her comfort, and when 
she had finished she left the instrument with a 
flushed face and embarrassed manner. Mr. Morgan 
complimented her singing in unqualified terms, and 
Fred pleaded for another, “just one more song.” 
But she refused in a decided manner, and took a 
seat at the centre-table. With a look of disappoint- 
ment, and a slightly indignant glance at Nora, 
Fred sat down at the piano, and played in a style 
so different from that of his sister that Edith was 
amazed that he did not correct her, instead of silently 
sanctioning her hammering out her music. 

She did not know that Frederick Morgan and his 
sister were seldom together, and so utterly indiffer- 
ent at all times that they never interfered with 
each other’s pursuits; Leonora’s peculiar style of 
playing had never met with either praise or censure 


CHANGE OF SCENE. 


151 


from her brother. Frederick was the senior by 
four years, and when quite young had been separ- 
ated from his sister by being sent to school in a 
distant State, where he was visited by his parents 
semi-annually. He was naturally warm-hearted 
and affectionate in disposition, and when he re- 
turned home, at the end of three years, his heart 
was overflowing with love for his sister; but he 
found her grown to be a proud, selfish girl, who 
looked upon her brother as an interloper, and re- 
turned his affectionate embraces with coldness, and 
eyed him with suspicion. She made it a point to 
dispute with him on every occasion of his receiving 
more than ordinary attention from his parents, and 
every favor he asked of them she considered an in- 
fringement on her own rights. Thus, by her un- 
sisterly behavior, she turned her brother’s affection 
to disgust, and when he returned to school it was 
with no pleasing recollections of his sister, but 
rather with a feeling of relief at their separation. 
He could have loved a sister — one worthy the en- 
dearing name — with all that love, so pure and holy, 
which usually exists in this relation ; he had often 
felt the need of a sister’s sympathy, but had never 
turned to /ier, and the few letters that had passed 
between them while he was at college were cold, 
brief, and invited no confidence on either side ; 
when he returned from college, and found Leonora 
as arrogant, overbearing, and selfish as when he 
left home, he kept aloof from her as much as possi- 
ble. It was only on rare occasions that they spent 
the evening in each other’s society, for Frederick 


152 


BEECH BLUFF. 


had formed other friendships, and passed his evenings 
away from home, with more congenial companions. 

Would that every siste'r’s mind could be impressed 
with the idea that she is her brother’s keeper! that 
on her unwearied kindness and affectionate vigi- 
lance depends, in a great measure, his exemption 
from those vices so common among young men, so 
degrading in their tendency, and which, “when once 
they invade, bring with them such a frightful train 
of followers!” 

Fred was still playing ; Edith and Mary were 
looking over some engravings, and the others were 
in the tea-room unfolding some packages which 
Christopher had brought in, when the door-bell rang, 
and Nora entered hastily, saying, “ That’s Cavelli.’’ 
In a moment, she was shaking hands with a dark- 
looking Italian, and Mrs. Morgan entered, and ex- 
pressed much pleasure at seeing the visitor. 

“My cousins. Miss Ellis, and Miss Mary Ellis, 
Signor Cavelli,” said Nora. 

He bowed to the young girls, and then his eye 
rested on Edith ; but, with a shrug of her shoulders 
and quick elevation of her eyebrows, Leonora 
turned away, and, wheeling a large chair before the 
fireplace, sat down and motioned to the gentleman 
to be seated near her. 

Frederick looked at his sister, and his eyes flashed 
and lip curled with an expression of intense scorn, 
and turning to Edith, said, “ Signor Cavelli, Miss 
Stanford.^' 

Edith’s face had become crimson at the intentional 
slight offered her by Leonora, and when Fred intro- 


CHANGE OF SCENE. 


153 


duced the Italian, she looked np, bowed, and drop- 
ped her eyes instantly, and continued to look at the 
pictures before her. 

Mr. Morgan ‘ came in in a few moments, and the 
conversation, which Leonora was monopolizing, be- 
came general; but Mrs. Morgan and her daughter 
studiously avoided addressing any»remarks to Edith, 
and when a topic was introduced upon which there 
seemed to be a diversity of opinion, and Fred ap- 
pealed to Edith to support him in his views, his 
sister abruptly changed the subject, and asked Ca- 
velli if he would not play. This was a piece of 
rudeness that Mrs. Morgan could not countenance; 
for, though her pride would not allow her to receive 
a governess in her family as a visitor, to be treated 
as her daughter’s equal, yet she would not encour- 
age any acts of vulgar rudeness on the daughter’s 
part that would forfeit her the title of lady ; and 
when Cavelli declined playing until after a while, 
she gave Leonora a look full of rebuke, and quietly 
resumed the conversation which had been inter- 
rupted. 

Fred, who had been* sitting on the sofa, drew a 
chair to the table and sat down beside Mary. Tak- 
ing advantage of a pause in the conversation, he 
said, “Cavelli, I am thinking seriously of a trip to 
Europe. Wouldn’t you like to bear me company ?” 
And he eyed the Italian keenly. 

“How soon?” asked Cavelli, without looking 
up. 

“ Next month,” answered Fred. 

“No, I believe not. I shall not return to Italy 


154 : 


BEECH BLUFF. 


before spring/’ be answered, glancing, with a smile, 
at Leonora. She returned the smile, and looked 
into the fire. 

Fred looked at a picture intently for a few mo- 
ments, then, with a very grave face, said, “ I think 
I’ll put Uncle Ellis into the notion of going; the 
trip would do him a world of good.’ 

“ Indeed !” exclaimed Matty. “ And, pray, what 
would we do?” 

“ Stay at home,” said he, looking into her face 
with a saucy smile. 

“ Humph ! I reckon papa wouldn’t leave us, and 
I know he wouldn’t take us from our studies, when, 
we are learning so fast.” 

“Pray, what are you learning?” 

“ EveryiVmg !” 

“ Everything ?” 

“Yes; I mean everything that is taught in 
schools.” 

“Geometry, trigonometry, sour milk, and long 
dresses,” said he, with a provoking smile. 

“And what is taught in colleges^ I’d like to know ? 
Geometry, trigonometry, smoke cigars, and look at 
the ladies.” 

“And dye his moustache! — that’s reduced to a 
science, now,” said Mr. Morgan, laughing heartily. 

“ And what do you do out of school hours, 
Matty?” asked Fred, after the laugh had sub- 
sided. 

“I read a good deal,” she answered. 

“What? Haven’t you finished the ‘Life and 


CHANGE OF SCENE. 155 

Adventures of Robison Crusoe’ — that remarkable 
man — yet ?” he asked. 

“ Yes, indeed, some time ago; and I would like 
to read some of De Foe’s other works, but papa 
hasn’t any,” she replied, not ashamed to acknow- 
lege that she liked the book. “But we read aloud 
now. 

“ Who do you mean by weV’* 

“Miss Edith, and Mary, and myself, and some- 
times papa.” 

“ And so you’ve formed an association for literary 
improvement. What do you call it ? ‘ Beech Bluff 

Lyceum ?’ ” 

“ We don’t call it anything, but we think it very 
pleasant, don’t we Mary ?’’ 

“Yes, and very profitable,” Mary ventured to 

say- 

little puss!” said Fred, mimicking her 
tone, and putting his arm around her. Then, turn- 
ing to Edith, he said, addressing her; “ What kind 
of a collection of books has Uncle Ellis, Miss Stan- 
ford ?” 

“ A very fine collection, ” returned Edith. 

“Cousin Fred, why don’t you call papa ‘Uncle 
Jacob?’” asked Matty. 

“He taught me. to call him Uncle Ellis when I 
was a child, and I have always continued to do so,” 
returned Fred. 

“ That was one of Ellis’s whims,’’ said Mr. Morgan, 
stopping in his walk up and down the room. “ He 
told me once that he never could forgive the in- 
jury that was done him by his parents when they 


156 


BEECH BLUFF. 


named him Jacob. It is the nickname of Jake that 
is particularly offensive to him, I believe.” 

“It is not a very euphonious appellation, certain- 
ly,” said Fred. 

“Who would ever think of calling papa JakeV'' 
exclaimed Matty. 

They all laughed, for such a name was decidedly 
incompatible with the character and noble person 
of Mr. Ellis. 

“What’s in a name?” said Mr. Morgan, continu- 
ing his walk. 

“A great deal I” said Fred, speaking very em- 
phatically. “ A rose by any other name would 
not smell as sweet — at least to me. A name is ex- 
pressive of some character, and when misapplied 
the incongruity strikes us at once. Call a rose, 
turnip^’’^ and flourishing his arm across the table, he 
said, “Miss Matty, will you not accept and wear this 
turnip for my sake? Now, doesn’t that sound ridi- 
culous?” turning to his father. 

“ Of course !” replied his father ; “ because the 
name is associated in our minds with the vegetable, 
and the mention of the one suggests- the idea of the 
other. On the other hand, it would be quite as 
absurd to invite Miss Matty to dine on roses.” 

“ Very poetical,” said Fred, laughing immoder- 
, ately; but decidedly absurd, for, judging from her 
appearance. Miss Matty would prefer to dine on 
something more substantial.” 

Mr. Morgan was standing behind Mary’s chair 
twining her thick curls around his finger; looking 
over into her face, he said — 


CHANGE OF SCENE. 


157 


“Well, beauty, what names do you like best?” 

Looking first at her uncle, then at Edhh, she said, 
Very innocently — 

“ Edith and " Ellis:'' 

“ Corresponding initials! Do you mean the two 
names together?” exclaimed Fred. 

“Yes — no — any way.” said Mary, comprehend- 
ing from Edith’s blushes and Matty’s distressed look 
that she had made a blunder. 

Fred’s smile gave place to a look of vexation 
when he discovered Edith^s embarrassment, and, 
rising from his seat, he said, “ Come, Cavelli, give 
us some music 1” And the unpleasant occurrence 
was soon forgotten in listening to Signor Cavelli’s 
delightful playing. 

After singing a duet with Leonora, Signor Cavelli 
took his leave, and a few moments after, Mrs. Mor- 
gan gave the signal for retiring. 

“ Let us go to your room for a few moments. 
Miss Edith 1” said Matty, when they were in the hall. 

“No, my dear, it is later than you usually sit up, 
and you must both go to bed and to sleep as soon 
as possible,” and, kissing them, she preceded to her 
own room. Closing the door, she dropped the cur- 
tains, and sat down in the small rocking-chair and 
took another survey of the apartment. By the light 
of the astral lamp which was burning on the table, 
the walls, ceiling, and furniture looked positively 
black, and she felt as if surrounded by the gloom 
of a subterranean vault. “ I wonder if the fort- 
night will be as long, accordingly, as this day has 
been 1” she thought, looking into the fire. “ A/ur^ 
14 


158 


BEECH BLUFF. 


night! it seems interminable, but I must submit,” 
she said, aloud, and then, after a pause, during 
which she gazed steadily into the fire, she drew a 
long breath, leaned her head on the back of the 
chair, and said, “Longing already for the congenial 
atmosphere of Beech-bluff!” Another pause. “ One 
more Christmas-eve, and the next I’ll spend at home ! 
Deo Volente r 

In the mean' time Mrs. Morgan and Fred had re- 
mained in the parlor, and. as soon as the door was 
closed upon the others, Fred threw himself on the 
sofa beside his mother, exclaiming, “ mother, I am 
really surprised at your receiving Cavelli here on 
such intimate terms 1” 

“ His mother was my most intimate friend,” re- 
joined Mrs. Morgan; 

“ I know, and was killed by his father’s neglect. 
I am inclined to think that he possesses all his 
father’s vices and none of his mother’s virtues, for 
I hear a great deal that is to his disadvantage.” 

“But, my son, you invited him to accompany 
you to Europe !” 

“I know that I did, and for this very reason ; he 
told me, several weeks ago, that he intended to 
return to Italy in the spring, and I wished to ascer- 
tain if he had really any intention of doing so. He 
had not, as I suspected, and, furthermore, he has no 
idea of sailing in the spring as he told me this even- 
ing.” 

“ His father has written requesting him to meet 
him at Florence in May.” 

“ His father I his father is a worthless, Italian 


CHANGE OF SCENE. 


159 


who supports himself by the dice^ and if they are to 
meet it is for no good purpose, I’m confident. Old 
Cavelli came to this country at his son’s age; tauglit 
music awhile and by deceptive arts and flattery in- 
veigled one of his pupils — a young girl — into a pri- 
vate marriage with himself, took her to a foreign 
country, where after a few unhappy years, she died, 
neglected, and in poverty.” 

“But .that was not the son’s fault,” said Mrs. 
Morgan, shaking her head gravely. 

“ Certamly not ; but it was the husband’s, the 
father of this young man, who, regardless of the 
solemn injunction of his dying wife, and forgetful 
of his own and his child’s interests, withheld his 
son, when a bachelor uncle offered to adopt him ; 
and even 'when this uncle went to Italy for the ex- 
press purpose of bringing the child to America, the 
deep-rooted hatred which old Cavelli felt for his 
wife’s relations, caused by their efforts to effect a 
separation between his wife and himself, and by 
their steady refusal to acknowledge made him 
spurn with insult the offer to adopt his child. But, 
though rancor then made him so relentlessly obsti- 
nate, he became mollified by want and disease, and 
after years of unbroken silence on his part, he 
sends his son over, at the age of twenty-one, to 
claim the once offered but rejected support; and 
here he remains, an idle, worthless fellow, possessing 
no value of character to recommend him, and no 
talents save what lies in his finger ends, and — ” Fred 
hesitated. 

“And what? I will hear you out, Fred, though 


160 


BEECH BLUFF. 


your language is rather stronger than I altogether ap- 
prove,” said Mrs. Morgan, with the most serene ex- 
pression of countenance as if her son’s strong lan- 
guage did not alter her opinion of the subject of 
their conversation. 

Fred arose, and stood directly in front of his mo- 
ther, and continued, with emphasis; “And, if I 
mistake not, he is doing credit to his father’s tuition 
by playing the same game, in one point of which, 
his father proved a winner.” 

“ Fred, what do you mean ?” Her serenity was 
all gone, and for a moment, her maternal fears were 
aroused. 

“ I mean, mother, that if I am any judge of signs 
and looks, those that pass between young Cavelli 
and Leonora are indicative of something more than 
ordinary friendship.” 

“ You must be beside yourself, Frederick !” She 
spoke quickly, but in a low tone, and her voice and 
manner betrayed indignation as well as alarm. 
“ What! Leonora marry a poor penniless Italian ? 
She^ the haughty daughter of one of the proudest, 
wealthiest families in Georgia 1 No, no, my son 1” — • 
an incredulous smile spread over her face as she 
laid her hand on her son’s arm — “ Your sister’s pride 
will never bend to any thing; even love will be sub- 
ordinated to it. I receive Cavelli kindly, out of re- 
gard to the love that once existed between his mo- 
ther and myself, and Nora welcomes him cordially 
out of respect for me ; nothing more, Fred, depend 
upon it.” 

“ Mother, I am compelled to think that there is 


CHANGE OF SCENE. 


161 


something more, and, though I have never inter- 
fered with Leonora’s affairs, I must do so now, and 
prevent, if possible, a step that would mar the hap- 
piness of her whole life. Father does not approve 
of Cavelli, and treats him with as much coldness as 
his courtesy will allow him to treat any one in his 
own house ; but he continues to come here, never- 
theless and — I have been a close observer — when he 
suspects that he is losing ground with you, he 
adroitly introduces his mother’s name into the con- 
versation, and draws upon your sympathies, which 
you think are all for the mother, but of which, in 
reality, you are making the son the immediate ob- 
ject ; and Leonora — ” 

“ She would never, never marry Cavelli 1” ex- 
claimed Mrs. Morgan, in a louder, more decided tone. 

“ Your friend was from a family as high in social 
position and as proud as ours. She was undoubtedly 
as haughty as Leonora ; but she left home, friends, 
every thing for a poor adventurer, and learned from 
sad experience how one false step can make the 
misery of a lifetime, and your daughter may do 
the same.” 

“No, Fred, I cannot believe this; I know your 
sister better than you do, and I am convinced that 
she would never throw herself away, said Mrs. 
Morgan, rising and approaching the centre-table. 
“ Your solicitude is very natural, very brotherly, 
but I think your personal dislike to Cavelli has in- 
fluenced you, and led you to draw conclusions from 
actions, which in another you would regard as per- 
fectly innocent. As long as he deports himself in 


162 


BEECH BLUFF. 


a gentlemanly manner in my house, he is welcome 
to visit here. It is the least I can do for poor Ellen’s 
boy.” 

“ And by so doing you peril your daughter. My 
belief as to Cavelli’s designs is founded on the 
ground of satisfactory evidence, and that Leonora 
encourages him, is just as evident. I hope you will 
reflect upon this matter, and take measures at once 
to ward off danger.” 

“ Well, Fred, I will not treat your suspicions, or 
convictions, whichever you please to term them, 
with indifference ; but I will, to gratify you, be 
more circumspect in future; and if I discover any 
alarming symptoms, I will take Nora away until 
Cavelli has left the country. So good- night.” 

“One word more, if you please, mother,” ex- 
claimed Fred. 

“What now? It is late,” looking at her watch. 

“One word respecting the young lady who is 
visiting here — Miss Edith,” he added, in reply to 
his mother’s severe look of inquiry. 

“What of /ier, pray?” — and Mrs. Morgan seated 
herself on a chair near the door. 

“ This much, mother. She is entitled to more 
courtesy than has been accorded to her to-day.” 

“ What more can she expect? Has she not been 
treated b}- me with perfect civility ?” 

“ Civility, and nothing more, but something less 
b}^ Leonora.” 

“You probably forgot that Miss Stanford is your 
cousin’s governess^ not a distinguished stranger.” 

“ I do not forget, mother, that she is a stranger in 


CHANGE OF SCENE. 


163 


our city, and a visitor at our house, and should, 
therefore, be treated with the utmost courtesy; by 
her beauty, her polish of manners, and, judging 
from her proficiency in music, by her accomplish- 
ments also, she is fitted to grace any parlor that I 
ever entered,, and to adorn any circle that I have 
ever met in these rooms. And then mother a very^ 
powerful appeal to our courtesy and sympathy lies 
in the fact of her being a northerner like yourself; 
I think she has a special claim upon us..” 

“ I think it would be expedient for me to be cir- 
cumspect with you^ as well as with Leonora,” said 
Mrs. Morgan, in a tone slightly sarcastic. 

Fred did not change countenance, but commenced 
to drum on the piano with his fingers, and without 
making any direct reply to his mother’s observation, 
he said: “We boast of our iixmWj pride ; it strikes 
me that there is an inconsistency in receiving 
Cavelli, a marl of no worth, an idle fellow living on 
his uncle’s charity, with every mark of respect, and 
at the same time refusing to treat Miss Stanford — a 
perfect lady— with any degree of attention more 
than ordinary civility requires, simply because she 
maintains herself by her own talents.” 

“ We will drop this subject for the present, Fred- 
erick,” said Mrs. Morgan, once more rising to leave 
the room. “You know my views, and understand 
my feelings respecting governesses ; I hope you will 
respect them, and not become too devoted to Miss 
Edith. I question whether she will feel the need 
of attention from your sister and myself, while you 


16i . BEECH BLUFF. 

and your father bestow so much upon her. Good- 
night.” 

Frederick sprang to the door, opened it, and his 
mother passed into the hall; he stood a moment 
looking thoughtfully at the polished door knob 
which he was turning with his hand, and then at 
the entrance of the servant to put out the lights 
he closed the door, and went to his own room re- 
peating, in a half singing tone — 

“ Learn for the sake of your soul’s repose 

That wealth’s a bubble that comes and goes 1 
And that all proud flesh wherever it grows, 

Is subject to irritation I” 


CHAPTEE XI. 

HOLYDAYS. 

Long before light the following morning Edith 
was awakened by the black children screaming 
beneath her window “ Christmas-gift,” and “ Christ- 
mas-gift,” was taken up by voices in every direc- 
tion, and shouted in every key from the heavy bass 
to the childish treble. She arose and lighted her 
lamp then admitted Tiuk who had come to kindle 
her fire. 

“ Christmas-gift, Miss Edom,” said the black girl 
with a broad grin. 

“ Merry Christmas,” returned Edith with a smile 
as she closed the door. The girl looked at her with 
a mj^stified stare not comprehending exactly the 
sense of the greeting. 

“ At what time do the family breakfast, Tink,” 
asked Edith. 

“Nine o^clock, ’urn.” 

“ Edith looked at her watch ; it was not yet six, 
and dressing as quickly as possible she groped her 
way through the dark halls and rapped at the girl’s 
door. 

“ Come in,” said Matty, and entering she found 
both her pupils sitting up in bed. 

“ Oh it’s Miss Edith” — “ Christmas-gift,” “Christ- 
mas-gift,” exclaimed they both bounding out of 
bed. 

“Xow, if we hurry, we shall be in time for the 
seven o’clock mass.” 


166 


BEECH BLUFF. 


“ Don’t you think we might get to confession ? 
the Church is just over in the next street and it 
won’t take us but a few momrents to go there.” 

“That was my intention,” returned Edith. 

“I wish Nelly would hurry herself back,” ex- 
claimed Matty somewhat impatiently, as she gathered 
up her clothes and carried them to the grate where 
she warmed each article before putting it on. 

“Never mind Nelly; I’ll assist you to dress,” 
said Edith, and vvhen the girl made her appearance 
her young ladies were ready to go out. 

“Why didn’t you come up earlier Nell?” asked 
Matty. 

“ I. tot dat you’d want to sleep arter being up so 
late las’ evenin’ and so I crept out de room slily 
arter making de fire.” 

“Well, now you must come with us to Church; 
Aunt Martha would be shocked if we went out so 
early without a servant.” 

“ She’ll say you’rn crazy, any how; but I guess 
Miss Matty, we’ll get back fore she’s up and she 
need’nt know ’bout it; Miss Nora ’lllarf.you know.” 

“Need’nt know! Tink lam not ashamed nor 
afraid to have them all know, and I shall tell them 
myself,’’ replied Matty with dignity. 

Our little party found the church quite crowded 
but succeeded in getting to confession, and with 
full time for preparation, by waiting for the half- 
past-seven mass. 

“How much we have to thank you for Miss 
Edith,” said Mary on their return, “ had you not 
prepared us we would not have made our first com- 


HOLIDAYS. 


167 


m union, and to-day we could not have approached 
the sacraments. I do wish Uncle Jacob’s family 
were Catholic.” 

“ I judge they are not predjudiced,” said Edith. 

“ Oh, no, not at all,” chimed in Matty, “ they 
only think it very foolish to go out fasting so early 
in the morning, and very unhealthy. Nora thinks 
it’s excess of devotion. They never trouble them- 
selves about religion one way or the other, except 
to go to church on Sunday and in doing that they 
think they have done their duty. But I don’t be- 
lieve any of them would do anything they thought 
to be ivrong.'^^ 

“ Certainly not,” said Edith. 

“ Are you going to late mass. Miss Edith ?” asked 
Mary as they entered the house. 

“ 1 would like to go,” she answered. 

“ So would I.” 

“ And I too,” said the girls eagerly. 

“ Yery well, we’ll see about it, if we can go with- 
out disturbing the arrangements of your Aunt — if 
not we’ll make the sacrifice and stay at home.” 

“I wonder if Nora has any new things on the 
etageref said Matty as they returned to the parlor 
after laying off their shawls and bonnets. The 
family were not yet visible, and only Christopher 
was in the parlor arranging the fire-screen. 

“ What a curiosity-shop !” said Edith, glancing 
up and down the shelves, “ what is this made of?” 
taking up a yellowish-looking mat. 

“Don’t you know, Miss Edith?” exclaimed 
Matty. 


168 


BEECH BLUFF. 


“No, dear, I have never seen anything of the 
kind before,” answered Edith ; and Matty, with an 
animated face, proceeded to explain. 

“ I can tell you all about it,” said she, taking the 
mat in her own hand. “ Cousin Clarence brought 
it from India ; it’s made of laccine ; in the first place, 
lac is a sort of gum or stuff produced on the ban- 
yan-tree, and contains five or six different kinds of 
resin, and when it is first collected it becomes hard 
and is called stich lac ; and when that is melted it is 
called shell lac^ it becomes like a thin crust, and this 
molasses-candy-looking stuff is made from that, and 
is called laccine ; and that cabinet is lacquered or 
covered with varnish made of lac dissolved in 
spirits of wine. Doesn’t it seem strange that this 
beautiful mat was once nothing but gum, running 
down a tree away off in India ?” 

“You remembered it all, didn’t you, Matty?” 
said Mary, smiling. 

“Oh, I knew I would,” answered her sister, 
laughing; and turning to Edith, she said: “I’ll tell 
you how I learned it. Cousin Clarence told it to 
me last Christmas, and said if I would remember it, 
he would give me a silver card-case this Christ- 
mas.” 

“ I wonder if you’ll get it, Matty !” said Mary. 

“ I reckon not ; poor Clarence, he won’t be I 
here.” 

“Is your cousin dead?” asked Edith, concluding 
that he must be, from Matty’s sad tone. 

“O no! not dead, but” — and she looked around, 
as if afraid of being overheard. i 


HOLIDAYS. 169 

“If it’s a secret, Matty, you had better not con- 
fide it to me,” said Edith. 

“ It is not a secret^ but aunt don’t like to hear it 
spoken of. Cousin Clarence is Fred’s twin brother, 
and he is insane in the asylum at Savannah,” she 
said, dropping her voice to a whisper. 

“ He has been there three years,” said Marj'-, 
coming* close to Edith ; “ but last Christmas he 
came home and was all right for two months, and' 
then he became violent again, and had to be sent 
back.’' 

“ This is made of laccine, or shell lac, too,” said 
Matty, taking a long chain in her hand ; “ doesn’t it 
look like gold ?” and throwing the golden-looking 
chain over Edith’s head, it fell in a variety of grace- 
ful curves over the massive plaits of her dark hair. 

“Good-morning! and a merry Christmas!” ex- 
claimed Mr. Morgan, coming into the parlor evi- 
dently in a very jubilant mood. “Fred, look at 
this tableau vivant! Miss Edith and her pupils try- 
ing the efiect of green and gold ! The chain looks 
well over your black hair, and in contrast to your 
green dress !” said he, bowing to Edith, who was 
blushing and attempting to remove the frail orna- 
ment; but it had become entangled in her hair, 
and twisted around her comb. 

“Allow me to assist you,” said Mr. Morgan. 
But he found it a difficult matter to loosen it without 
breaking, and he called to Matty, who, with her 
sister, had chased their cousin into the hall, shout- 
ing “Christmas gift!” which he claimed oft the 
ground of having saluted them first, 

1q 


170 


BEECH BLUFF. 


“Every bit of your hair will have to come 
down !” exclaimed Matty, in dismay. “ Shall I 
draw out your comb ?” 

“ Yes,” answered Edith. And she bowed her 
head while Matty drew out the comb and unbraided 
her hair, which fell over her shoulders in a waving, 
heavy mass. 

“ Breakfast !” announced Christopher, introducing 
his head into the room, and disappearing as sud- 
denly. 

• “I must go to my room. Come, Matty,” said 
Edith, disliking to enter the breakfast-room alone. 
She held up her skirt, and ran through the hall, 
returning Fred’s bow and “ good-morning” with a 
blushing face and embarassed manner. Nora was 
on the stairs; she gave Edith a look of haughty 
surprise, said “ Christmas gift” to Matty, and passed 
them. Stopping before her brother, as soon as 
Edith and her cousin were out of hearing, she 
said : 

“Is that the northern style of displaying a pretty 
foot and Ibng hair ? That young lady has obvi- 
ously been studying effect!'' 

“No amount of study could accomplish that 
blush,” answered her brother. 

“ Yankee ingenuity has taught her how to ’bid the 
cheek be ready with a blush,” returned Nora. 

“ I think she would make her fortune by teaching 
the art to others,” said Fred, his look and tone im- 
plying that his sister would not be unwilling to 
learn. They both passed into the breakfast-roora 


HOLIDAYS. 171 

without having expressed a wish for the other’s en- 
joyment of the merry season. 

The family were seated around the table when 
Matty and Edith entered. 

“You’ve missed the ymce,” said Mr. Morgan, 
laughing, and motioning Edith to be seated in a 
chair at his side. 

“Did you say grace, uncle?” asked Matty with a 
surprised look. 

“ No my dear, I did not, but Nora, there, said it 
over her diamonds.” 

“Look at this superb set of diamonds that father 
and mother have given me!” And Nora handed the 
case to Matty. 

“Didjrou find your presents, girls?” asked Mrs. 
Morgan. 

“No aunt! Where are they ?” asked Mary. 

“ I sent them up to your room last evening,’’ re- 
turned Mrs. Morgan. And Mary started out of the 
room. 

“ They are watches !” exclaimed Matty, when her 
sister brought in two small velvet cases. And open- 
ing hers, she lifted a small Geneva watch, and ex- 
amined it with delight. 

“ Did you buy them uncle ?” 

“Yes, Miss Mary, / bought them!” 

“ Mary, they are from papa ! Look on the inside 
of the case.” 

“ O Uncle Morgan !” said Mary, after reading the 
inscription. 

“ Well I did buy them, but your father commis- 
sioned me to do so,” said her uncle, laughing. 


172 


BEECH BLUFF. 


‘‘ We are going to churcb, Aunt, Martha, said 
Mary, as they arose from the table. 

“ To church exclaimed Kora, “when your father 
is not here?” 

“ We are going with Miss Edith,” answered Mary, 
quietly. 

“Well, every person to his taste. I think it is 
the greatest bore in the world to go to church on a 
week day ! I’m glad that I am not a Catholic, for 
that very reason.” And she seated herself before 
the grate. 

“We were at early mass and if it will interfere 
with your arrangements, Aunt Martha, we won’t go 
again,” said Matty bravely. 

“ Kot in the least, go by all means.” 

“ At what hour does divine service commence ?” 
asked Fred, in a tone of mock solemnity. 

“ At half-past ten — 

“ It is ten now, and I think we had better be 
getting ready, don’t you, Miss Edith ?” asked Matty. 

“Yes, dear, if your aunt will excuse us,” replied 
Edith. And they left the room. 

Kora looked after them, and, after reflecting a 
moment said to her mother, who was standing 
beside her ; “ Miss Edith is not a member of the 
Catholic Church. 

“ Yes, I reckon she is,” said her mother. 

“Ko, ma’am, she is not; it’s a mistake; she be- 
longs to the Artful! Why, mother, she was at 
church early ^his morning, and then she went down 
into the parlor, got up a tableau-vivant for father’s 
benefit, and then ran through the hall, past Fred, 


HOLIDAYS. 


173 


with streaming hair, evidently with the object of 
making an impression on the young gentleman ; 
and now she’s going to church again a beautiful ex- 
ample of piety, expecting, without doubt, that mi- 
lord’ll accompany her.” She looked around to note 
the effect of her words upon her brother, who was 
standing with his back to her, looking out of the 
window. He did not notice her remarks, and she 
continued, addressing him directly : “ I am glad, 
Fred, that you did not let your politeness run away 
with your judgment; I expected you would offer to 
escort the governess to church.” He continued to 
drum on the window-pane, but said nothing. “Em- 
ily Owen is coming to-day. She looked at her 
mother, and they both looked at Fred, Leonora 
with a meaning smile and Mrs. Morgan with an 
earnest, anxious expression. His moustache went 
up contemptuously, but the announcement of Emily 
Owen’s anticipated arrival produced not a word. 
The drumming continued, rather louder and quicker 
for a few moments, and then, putting his hands be- 
hind, him he approached his mother, and said: — 

“ What time do we dine to-day, mother?” 

“At four o’clock,” replied Mrs. Morgan. 

He took up a spoon, balancing it on his finger 
for a few moments, then turned to leave the room. 

“ You will be home to dinner, will you not ?” his 
mother asked. 

“ Oh, certainly ; I shall return with the girls.” 

“ With the girls?” 

“ Yes, mother. Variety is the spice of life, and I 
think I’ll vary the order of exercise for Christmas 


174 


BEECH BLUFF. 


day, and go to church with Matty. I may come 
out a wiser and a better man. Au revoir /’^ And, 
smiling, he left the apartment. 

Matty I That’s a capital dodge 1” exclaimed 
Nora, “rii bet that he’ll walk with Miss Edith.” 
And she went into the parlor to watch them from 
the window. 

“ Where are you going. Cousin Fred ?” asked 
Matty drawing on her gloves as she preceded Edith 
and Mary down stairs. 

“ If you will be very amiable, I will walk down 
the street with you,” said he, tapping his boot with 
his cane. 

“ If I will permit you to do so, you mean. It is 
not often that you can be seen in such good company, 
and you must appreciate the honor.” 

Nora was at the window, and Fred, suspecting 
her motive, walked with Matty, out of consideration 
for Edith, whose position with regard to his mother 
and sister he did not think would be rendered any 
the more agreeable by particular acts of atten- 
tion on his part coming under their observation. 

They walked on briskly for some time; then 
gradually slackened their pace, and Fred, address- 
ing some remarks to Edith, fell back, and walked 
by her side. Without giving much thought to the 
subject, Edith had regarded him as a flippant, good- 
natured sort of a person, not having a very large 
stock of brains, and nothing particular to recom- 
mend him save his affability and politeness. She 
was surprised, therefore, to find him extremely in- 
telligent; and, after the weather and other topics 


HOLIDAYS. 


175 


of general interest had been discussed, and the con- 
versation took a higher tone, she was astonished at 
the extent of information which he seemed to pos- 
sess with regard to European affairs, society abroad, 
the political condition of both countries, etc., sub- 
jects which had been suggested by the mention of 
his anticipated European tour, but which, from his 
general manner and conversation, one would have 
supposed foreign to his daily experience. 

When they reached the church, Fred said: “I 
will go in, if you think I will not disturb your de- 
votions.” 

“Come in, by all means. Cousin Fred,” said 
Matty, with an approving smile. 

It was the first time Edith had the opportunity 
of being present at high mass since she had been 
from home. At the church near the Bluff the want 
of music necessitated low mass, and for the priva- 
lege of having even that the Catholics in the neigh- 
borhood were only too thankful. As the powerful 
tones of the organ burst forth in joyous peals, tears 
came unbidden to Edith’s eyes ; every note seemed 
to speak of home, and friends, so distant, and all 
her prayers were for those loved ones who would 
miss her beyond all expression on that day, ever 
the gladdest, merriest of all the year. But she was 
united with them in spirit, in the presence of that 
Blessed One, who rests upon the myriads of altars 
dotting like stars this broad earth, and before which 
no true Catholic heart however weary, wandering, 
and desolate ever fails to find itself at home. Here 


176 


BEECH BLUFF. 


all is supplied — home, friends, kindred, refreshment, 
peace and rest. 

Edith found it thus, and when she issued from the 
church her countenance was radiant and beautiful ; 
she was in love and charity with all the world, even 
her haughty hostess and her daughter who made 
the very atmosphere around them cold, ^nd their 
elegant mansion uninviting; she felt their haughty 
coldness all the more since she knew that Mrs.Morgan 
was from her own clime, tho’ it had been years since 
she came south. Universally well received as Edith 
had been by Mr. Ellis’ large circle of friends in 
the neighborhood of the Bluff, and the recipient of 
the most flattering attentions, she could not but feel 
keenly the pointed superciliousness of the one whose 
cordial kindness she felt she had the most claim 
u*pon. But, she said to herself in all humility that 
she needed the discipline as a counterpoise to the too 
great complaisance with which she was treated by 
all others. At the church yard gate Fred parted 
with them, saying that he had enjoyed the music, 
and now that he knew where fine singing was to be 
heard, he should be present frequently. 

“ A much more sensible way of passing Sunday 
morning, than at the club,” said Matty bidding a 
farewell. 

“Where’s Fred?” asked Nora, when they en- 
tered the parlor, after leaving their bonnets up 
stairs. 

“ He went down to the reading- room to look over 
the papers,” answered Matty. 

“ Gone down there to smoke, more likely ; that’s 


HOLIDAYS. 177 

what his religious fit will end in said Leonora, 
pointedly though in a pleasant tone. 

“ Smoke and religion ! Ha ! ha I” exclaimed a 
voice in the tea-room. “How de do, girls? I’ll 
come in and look at you, directly.” And, in less 
than a minute, a figure came bounding into the 
room, with outstretched arms, and embraced Matty 
and Mary; then, without waiting for an introduc- 
tion, extended her hand to Edith, saying: “ I’ll not 
stand upon ceremony. Miss Edith, for I’ve known 
you ever since you’ve been South.” 

Edith’s face expressed her surprise. 

“It’s a fact! Come over here to the fire-place, 
and I’ll tell you what kind of an acquaintance 
we’ve had together.” A«id, pulling Edith to a seat, 
she threw herself on the rug, and continued : “ You 
know Mr. Acton ?”, 

“Yes, certainly ; he was my com — ” 

“ I know,” interrupted the stranger ; “ he was 
your companion for a few days ; he is my companion 
for life : in other words, he is my other half, or 
three-quarters, for he is twice as old and large as I 
am, which is all very right and proper.” 

“ Why, Emily 1 you married ?” exclaimed Matty, 
holding her breath in astonishment. 

“ Yes, honey; I am joined in the holy bonds of wed- 
lock, and a hole-y institution wedlock is; one can 
easily slip through the meshes in this country of 
divorces, and I think I’ll be legally dissolved, for 
it’s a great nuisance to have a man’s boots kicking 
about your room!” 


178 


BEECH BLUFF. 


“ But when were you married ?” asked Matty, 
scarcely recovering her breath. 

“You’ll learn all that in good time, if you listen. 
Now, Miss Edith, I’ll go on with rny story. Well, 
Mr. Acton, after he left you^ went to Havana to see 
me. We had intended to be married next fall, but 
while he was there we concluded to bring the court- 
ship to a close, for he has been in New York nearly 
all the year, and it’s a great bore to court such a 
distance apart; and, besides, I’m the most misera- 
ble correspondent ; hate letter-writing ; and mother 
had to answer all his letters, which did not seem to 
please him (though I’ve heard papa say that she 
writes splendid letters); and so I consented to be 
married as soon as he retmrned from Florida, and 
go to New York for our bridal tour, which was 
quite a piece of economy, as he bad to go there any 
way, you see.” 

“ But when were you married ?” persisted Matty. 

“ Two weeks ago, honey, and without letting the 
good people here know anything about it; for you' 
must know. Miss Edith” — casting her eyes at Nora, 
and looking very mischievous — “you must know 
that Mrs. Morgan and Nora there had dedicated me 
to Fred, who very naturally detested the sight of 
me, because I was always being poked under his 
nose. Weren’t they enraged when I arrived this 
morning with my spouse ! But I’ve been quite jealous 
of you.. Miss Stanford” — starting to her feet sud- 
denly; “ really, quite jealous.” • 

“Of me/” exclaimed Edith. 

“Yes me! and I called you names several times, 


HOLIDAYS. 


179 


for William was everlastingly talking about Miss 
Stanford, and wondering how you got along, and if 
you liked Beech Bluff, etc., until I more than half 
suspected that he was in love with you” — and then, 
sinking her voice to a very audible whisper, she 
said with a look of arch delight at the extent of her 
knowledge — “I know all about Charles Howard 1” 

Edith colored, but said nothing ; Nora eyed her 
sharply, and Emily, resting her bead against the 
mantle, looked serious for a moment, then con- 
tinued : “I am right down glad that you gave him 
his walking papers !” Edith looked astonished and 
distressed, but the volatile tongue ran on. “ He’ll 
catch a tartar when he marries Ellen Acton, if she 
is beautiful. She is William’s niece, and he says 
that she is very fond of admiration, and is of a 
dreadfully jealous disposition ; and three or four 
years ago, when she and Mr. Howard met in 
Europe, they became engaged ; but she broke the 
engagement, because she heard after he came home 
that he was paying very particular attention to a 

certain young lady in B ,” and the tormentor 

opened her eyes and nodded her head at Edith in a 
significant manner. 

Edith felt distressed at these disclosures before 
her pupils, but she remained silent, fearing that if 
she made any remark, it would only, encourage 
Mrs. Acton to be more communicative. She was 
hoping that nothing more would be said on the sub- 
ject, and, to avoid it, was about to address a remark 
to Matty, when the little lady suddenly broke out 
again — 


180 


BEECH BLUFF. 


“ William thinks that Mrs. Kichards had a finger 

in the pie, and sent for Ellen to visit B , in the 

hopes of renewing the engagement between her and 
Charles Howard ! I wonder if they’ll call me Aunt 
Emily !” 

“You! why you are only two years older than I 
am, and you don’t seem one bit older than when we 
used to play here together,” said Matty. 

“Yes, but I am, though; and I’m improved, too, 
for I don’t quarrel any more, and I give up all my 
playthings. You know we never got along very 
amiably together.” 

“There’s Fred!” exclaimed Kora, as the front 
door opened and closed with a loud noise. 

“Tell him I’m married, or he won’t speak to 
me!” said Emily, catching hold of Kora’s dress. 

“Ah, Em ! how de do? I’m glad to see you !” and 
Fred grasped her hand in a most cordial manner. 

“ Bight well, hon — Fred, I mean ! and I’m 
married! not that I’m particularly glad of it, but I 
think you'W be !” 

“ I know it, Emily ; I met your husband with 
father. Allow me to congratulate you!” 

“As much as you please! but I fancy you con- 
gratulate yourself the most; you never gave my 
hand such a friendly grasp in your life !” and they 
both laughed heartily, continuing to shake hands 
and congratulate each other. 

Emily — or Mrs. Acton — was of a petite figure, 
firmly proportioned, and very graceful and sylph- 
like in her motions, and possessing soft blonde ring- 
lets and a pearly skin, which, together with her 


HOLIDAYS. 181 

juvenile manners and childish voice, made her 
appear even younger than sixteen. 

Mr. Morgan returned with Mr. Acton, who 
evinced the greatest pleasure on seeing Edith, and 
at dinner begged Mrs. Morgan to alter her arrange- 
ments and allow him to sit between his wife and 
Miss Stanford. Mrs. Morgan, whose manner seemed 
to have thawed considerably, though the governess 
was still a thorn in the flesh, granted the request, 
and he sat down with his wife and Edith on either 
side of him. Mr. Acton entered at once into conver- 
sation with Edith ; talked about their, friends in 

B , and revived reminiscences of their journey, 

Mrs. Acton bending forward to catch the joke and 
laugh with them. Gradually throwing off the re- 
straint that had made. Edith appear to a disadvan- 
tage, though never awkward^ she became her natu- 
ral self, and looked so animated and charming that 
even Mrs. Morgan’s unwilling eye rested on her in 
admiration. 

The three succeeding days were spent in a perfect 
whirl of excitement; driving and walking in the 
daytime, visiting all the objects and places of inter- 
est in and around Augusta ; and the evenings were 
passed at public places of amusement, of which 
there seemed no dearth. On the morning of the 
fourth day, Mr. and Mrs. Action took their leave, 
amid many expressions of regret, none more sincere 
than Edith’s. 

Whatever had been communicated to Mrs. Mor- 
gan and her daughter respecting Edith, there was a 
very perceptible change in their deportment towards 
16 


182 


BEECH BLUFF. 


her ; they paid her more attention, and it was evi- 
dent that she had risen in their estimation. 

It was the morning before New Year’s ; the young 
folks were assembled in the parlor arranging the 
flowers that were to decorate the rooms on the oc- 
casion of Nora’s party. Edith’s taste had been con- 
sulted, and she was filling vases and directing the 
girls where to place them. 

“ Where is that gum shell-lac chain ?” exclaimed 
Matty, setting a vase on the etagere, 

“Isn’t it there?” asked Nora. 

“ No ; and I want it to wind around this bust of 
Jenny Lind.” 

“ It must be there under some of the ornaments, 
Matty,” answered her cousin. 

“Indeed, it is not. Christopher was in here pol- 
ishing the andirons; I’ll ask him if he has seen it.” 
And, going to the door, she called the colored man. 

“No, Miss Matty, I habn’t seen it in here, but I 
sawd it up in massa Fred’s room tree days back.” 

“ In your master Fred’s room !’’ — going to the door 
with a piece of music in her hand. “ What’s pos- 
sessed him to take it ? it belongs to me. Go up 
and get it, Christopher.” 

“ P’r’aps massa won’t ’low it. Miss Nora,” an- 
swered the man, looking rather dubious, and twirl- 
ing his hat in his hand. 

“Do as I bid you I” said Nora, sharply, stepping 
a pace forward and stamping her foot, then drawing 
herself up to her full height she returned to the 
piano and awaited the servant’s appearance. 

“ Can’t find ’um no whar I done gwine Miss 1” said 


HOLIDAYS. 


183 



Christoplier, entering and npproaching his young 
mistress with a very uncertain gait and manner. 

Looking at him a moment, an angry expresion 
settled over her face; then, as if the negro were 
the offending person, she ordered him, in no very 
gentle tone, to “leave the room.” 

Nora’s good-humor was gone for the morning; 
she jerked her music, threw down a vase of flowers 
in one of her sudden movements, and then, in rais- 
ing the piano cloth to prevent the water from run- 
ning on to the carpet, she dropped a note which she 
held in her hand into it, neither of which accidents 
tended to soothe her irritation. She called one of 
the servants and scolded her for carelessness when 
she accidentally brushed a piece of music with the 
towel with which she was saturating up the water. 
Tearing up the note, she threw the pieces into the 
fire, and was leaving the room with a very unamia- 
ble expression of countenance, when the door-bell 
rung. She listened intently for a moment ; as the 
parlor door opened, she advanced and received Ca- 
velli with one of her most bewitching smiles. So 
sudden and so complete was the transformation, 
that to Edith, so unaccustomed to such scenes, she 
appeared as if suddenly touched by a fairy’s wand ; 
and one who had not witnessed the turbulent state 
of her temper a few moments previous would have 
doubted had he been told that aught had occurred 
to ruffle its sweetness. She bowed gracefully, and 
returned his “ Happy New Year” with all her ele- 
gance and polish of manner, and after he had passed 
the compliments of the season with the “young 


184 


BEECH BLUFF. 


ladies,” she motioned him to the sofa, and sat down 
herself. 

“ I have come to bring my regrets, Miss Nora,” 
he said, handing her a bouquet of rare exotics. 
“ Circumstances prevent my being present this even- 
ing, but — ” 

“Why, of course jovi]]. come!” exclaimed Nora, 
interrupting him. 

“ I am sorry that I am to be deprived of that 
pleasure,” he replied in his soft accents. “ I re- 
ceived a telegram this morning announcing the dan- 
gerous illness of a friend in New York, and re- 
questing my immediate presence.” 

“ How excessively annoying ! But when will 
you return?” Nora asked, in a tone of vexation. 

“Just as soon as possible. If I find that dissolu- 
tion has taken place when I arrive there, I shall re- 
turn immediately.” Then, sinking his voice, he 
murmured a few words and left the room, accom- 
panied by Leonora. She did not make her appear- 
ance again until dinner-time, when her good-nature 
seemed perfectly restored, and she laughed and 
chatted with Edith quite familiarly. 

“I have made out my programme for this even- 
ing, and I hope the performers will acquit them- 
selves creditably,” said she, gayly. 

“ Performers 1 Whose services have you en- 
gaged ?” asked her father, with a smile. 

“Well, let me seel There’s Miss Elton, she’ll 
play and sing, of course ; and — Miss Edith, you’ll 
sing, will you not ?” 

“Certainly, if my doing so will give you any 


HOLIDAYS. 185 

pleasure,” replied Edith, somewhat surprised at the 
sudden clearing off of the clouds. 

“That’s right! Your music Avill give decided 
eciat to t\iQ performance,''' replied Nora, gayly. 

“Who else, Nora?” Mr. Morgan asked. 

“ Fred, of course. The gentleman is absent when 
the roll is called ; but we depend upon him, and 
hope he’ll be accommodating.’’ 

“Cavelli, I suppose?” 

“No, sir. Cavelli has gone to New York; he 
left his adieus with me this morning.” 

“ The mischief he has 1 What has called him 
there so suddenly ?” 

“ The illness of a friend.” 

“ And couldn’t stay to your party ?” 

“ No, sir,” answered his daughter, with a faint 
blush. 

“How many letters are you to receive a day, 
Nora?” asked Matty, mischievously. 

“ Not one, my dear,” said her aunt, before Nora 
had time to reply. And, looking at Nora with a 
satisfied smile, as if confident that her daughter 
would not disregard her wishes, she continued — • 
“ Your cousin knows that I do not approve of a 
correspondence. Nora did not look up, but con- 
tinued to run her pencil over the paper which she 
called the “ programme.” 

“You did not name yourself, Cousin Nora,” said 
Mary. 

“No; Cavelli actually had the impertinence to 
tell me not to disgrace my music master by hanging 
to night, and, as I shall be otherwise engaged, I 


186 


BEECH BLUFF. 


shall not play at all. He thinks my style needs 
taming down, and he is going to take me in hand 
as soon as he returns,” she said, laughing, as they 
arose from the table. 

“ Taming down!” thought Edith. “ What an in- 
fluence he must have acquired over her to have 
effected such a wonderful taming down of her style 
already 1” 

“ And so you have changed your mind about 
keeping Miss Stanford in the corner,” said Mrs. 
Morgan, entering the dinning-room, and closing the 
door. 

“Yes, mother.” 

“But I do not think it was altogether politic in 
you to propose her singing; that will introduce 
her at once to the notice of the whole company, and, 
if left by herself, she might pass unobserved.” 

“Never, mother; she is too handsome and dis- 
tinguished-looking, and besides, papa would drag 
her awkwardly into notice, and we had better take 
her under our own wing; she has completely be- 
witched papa and Fred.” 

“Ay, there’s the rub — your brother!” 

“ I am not at all alarmed on his account since 
Mr. Acton told us that she refused that Mr. Howard, 
who. he says, is the handsomest man he ever saw, 
besides being very wealthy. With all Miss Edith’s 
quiet ways and apparent unconsciousness^ it’s niy 
opinion that she understands her own attractions, 
and puts a proper value on them, and is reserving 
herself for some high position,” said Nora ironi- 
cally. 


HOLIDAYS. 


187 


“ I certainly never saw Fred so mucli interested 
in any lady before,” said Mrs. Morgan, without no- 
ticing her daughter’s remarks, “and she certainly 
is very interesting, very lovely. 

Notwithstanding Mrs. Morgan’s apparent incre- 
dulity when warned by her son of a secret love ex- 
sting between Leonora and Signor Cavelli, yet she 
did experience a feeling of uneasiness which had 
a mounted to positive anxiety when she was inexpress- 
ibly relieved by Cavelli’s sudden departure. But from 
an anxious state of mind on her daughter’s account 
she was thrown into a state of perturbation by her 
son’s increasing devotion to Edith, and the announce- 
ment of his intention to spend Easter week at the 
Bluff, and, in consequence, a deferring of his Euro- 
pean tour. She had become so thoroughly alarmed 
that she had concluded to speak to her brother-in- 
law on the subject, and request him not to encourage 
a visit from his nephew. By keeping Edith “in a 
corner,” by making her a neglected wall- flower, 
Mrs. Morgan had believed that she would appear 
awkward and out of place ; and, as her son had of- 
ten declared that he never would marry a woman 
who appeared to a disadvantage in society, she had 
hoped that he would be thoroughly cured of his 
penchant for the governess. But now that Nora (to 
whose whims Mrs. Morgan always yielded) had sig- 
nified her intention of bringing Edith “out,” she 
was actually in despair ; for, conscious that she 
would appear to the very best advantage, partfcu- 
larly at the piano, she expected that Fred would be- 
come a fixture at her side. In making their ar •• 


188 


BEECH BLUFF. 


rangements, Mrs. Morgan and her daughter had de- 
cided that Matty should stand with Nora at one end 
of the room, while Mary and her aunt, with Mr. 
Morgan, were to occupy a position near the door to 
receive the guests as they entered. It afterwards 
occurred to Mrs. Morgan that by this arrangement 
Edith would be left to Fred, who she did not doubt 
would form a committee of reception in another part 
of the apartment, a feature which she did not con- 
sider as at all desirable; and, to obviate this diffi- 
culty, she requested Fred to stand with his sister 
and cousin. She had just made the request, and 
was congratulating herself on her able generalship, 
when the door of the tea-room, where they were as- 
sembled, was thrown open, and Mr. Ellis entered. 
Matty and Mary, with a scream of delight, bounded 
to receive him ; with difficulty he released himself 
from their embraces, and advanced to receive the 
welcome of the others. After shaking hands 
Avarmly with Mr. and Mrs. Morgan and his ni^ece 
and nephew, he looked around the room, and a 
shadow settled on his face. Matty, who under- 
stood her father’s countenance, hastened to explain. 

“ Miss Edith will be down in a moment, papa; 
she is fixing the trimming on my dress. Nora is 
going to have a party this evening, and Mary and I 
are going to wear purple sashes and bows and white 
dresses. The dress-maker didn’t fix them to Miss 
Edith’s taste, and she has been the whole afternoon 
altering them. Here she comes, and I reckon she 
don’t know that you are here — see what she’ll say.” 
And Matty looked with a pleased, eager face to- 


HOLIDAYS. 


189 


wards the door, which opened and admitted Edith, 
who, without noticing Mr. Ellis’s presence, walked 
quietly to her seat, beside Mr. Morgan. 

“Why, Miss Edith !” exclaimed Matty, in.a tone 
of vexation and surprise. 

Edith looked up quickly, and her face became 
perfectly radiant with astonished pleasure on behold- 
ing Mr. Ellis. His eye was fixed on her face, so 
sweet in its quiet repose as she walked to her seat, 
and the sudden electrical change that passed over it 
on discovering his presence produced a flush in his 
own cheek, and rendered the meeting somewhat em- 
barrassed on both sides. Edith apologized for not 
observing him when she entered the room, and, re- 
gaining her wonted composure, she inquired after 
his people at the Bluff. 

“ Come my son,” said Mrs. Morgan to Fred, who, 
according to his usual custom when annoyed, had 
walked to the window, and was drumming on the 
glass, “come; we must have tea over, and adjourn 
to our dressing-rooms.” He took his seat, and, with 
his usual lively manner, said: — 

“Well, uncle, you have arrived just in time for 
the frolic.” 

“ I don’t know about that, Fred,” returned Mr. 
Ellis; “I have important business to transact this 
evening, which may detain me down town until a 
late hour. You know I am very bashful (with a 
smile), and I could not summon courage to enter 
the room alone, after all the guests have assembled.” 

“I’ll wait for you, papa !” exclaimed Mary. 


190 


BEECH BLUFF. 


“And miss your lesson in receiving company ? 
No, that will not do,” said Mrs. Morgan. 

“ Here is Miss Edith, Ellis,’’ said Mr. Morgan. 
“I believe she is the only one who has not been 
pressed into the receiving service ; she will come 
out and escort you into the room.” 

“Very well, Miss Edith,” said Mr. Ellis, without 
waiting for a reply from her. “ You can luait for me 
until ten o’clock, and if I am not here at that time, 
Fred must be your escort.” 

“With pleasure,” returned Fred. 

Mr. Ellis had discovered at once that Edith was 
on a sociable footing with the family, and, feeling 
relieved of some anxiety on that score, his spirits 
rose proportionately. 

“ I believe I have some letters for you. Miss Edith,” 
said he, as she was about to leave the room with the 
girls; and he handed her a package, saying, “You 
can read them while you wait for me in the library.” 

The blushes and embarrassment attending the 
meeting between her brother-in-law and his daugh- 
ters* governess did not escape the observation of 
Mrs. Morgan. “ She must not be put in Mary’s place, 
either,” she said to herself, while she poured out the 
tea ; then glancing at her son as he took liis seat at 
the table, — “ I must balk them both by making it ap- 
parent to each that the other will win.” 


CH APTEE XIT. 


AN UNEXPECTED ARRIVAL — AN UNWELCOME GUEST. 

“Ah, ha! 

There’s mischief in this man.” 

“And he, repulsed (a short tale to make), 

Fell into silence, then into a fast ; 

Thence to a watch ; thence into a weakness ; 

Thence to a lightness ; and by this declension 
Into the madness wherein now he raves.” 

“There are a thousand such elsewhere 
As worthy of your wonder.” 

After assisting the girls to dress, and bestowing 
a reasonable amount of praise on their dresses and 
appearance, Edith took up her light to proceed over 
to her own apartment. 

“ IIow do you like my dress. Miss Stanford ?” 
asked Nora, issuing from her room, dressed in the 
most elaborate evening toilet. It was a style of 
dress that Edith never would have selected for her- 
self under any circumstances ; but she could not 
but admire it on Leonora Morgan, to whom a com- 
bination of rich colors seemed as natural and ap- 
propriate as to her own southern flowers. The 
flash of her diamonds added materially to the bril- 
liancy of her appearance, and, as she turned herself 
around and viewed her dress in the mirror, a look 
of satisfied vanity settled over her countenance ; 
with a movement peculiar to herself, she threw 
back her shoulders and turned to leave the room 
without bestowing even a glance on her cousins. 


192 


BEECH BLUFF. 


“Anddon^t we look nice, too ?” asked Martha, 
turning herself around exactly as her cousin had 
done. It was a rule of Nora’s ethics never to in- 
crease a person’s self-esteem by compliment or 
praise; but, on the contrary, to diminish it as much 
as possible by bestowing a very moderate allow- 
ance of approbation, accompanied by a tone and 
manner indicative of unwilligness to condemn, 
leading the person to infer that she did not approve, 
but was reluctant to express her real opinion. In 
accordance with this rule which she had adopted, 
and by which she designed, not only to make her 
companions dissatisfied with themselves, but to in- 
crease their admiration of her by leading them to 
draw comparisons to their own disadvantage, she 
deliberately surveyed her cousins from head to foot, 
and then, in a drawling tpne, hesitating between the 
words, she replied : — 

“ Ye-ry — well, I reckon — you’ll doJ' And, with 
a stereotj^ped smile which she always assumed 
when going into company, she went down stairs. 

Poor artless Emily had frequently been made to 
suffer the greatest uneasiness, and for whole even- 
ings to fidget in a state of uncertainty regarding 
her appearance by her friend Nora’s non-committal 
way of answering the question “ How do I look, 
Nora?” which was sure to be followed by the pet- 
tish exclamation, “ I do wish, Nora Morgan, that I 
could dress with as much taste as you do!” But 
Matty, who did not lack in penetration, understood 
her cousin perfectly, and merely smiled. 

Mary, however, began to fidget like Emily, and 


AN UNWELCOME GUEST. 


193 


examined the bottom of her dress as if she sus- 
pected something wrong. “ Isn’t my dress too 
short, Miss Edith ?” she said, after a series of evo- 
lutions before the glass. 

“No, my dear. Does it look too short in the 
glass?” 

“ No, but I thought it must because Nora looked 
at it so queer.” 

“ You little goose !” exclaimed Matty, “ don’t 
you know that, she does that on purpose to make 
you think you don’t look well ? Humph ! if you 
are going to mind her looks, you’ll make yourself 
miserable, as Emily used to do” — opening the door 
and imitating as she did so her cousin’s somewhat 
affected manner, she looked back at Edith, and 
laughed, saying, “Is that the style?” 

Edith shook her head gravely, and followed 
them to the stairs, where she watched them descend 
to the brilliantly lighted apartments below. 

“ What ! not dressed yet !” exclaimed Fred, look- 
ing up from the foot of the stairs. 

“ Plenty of time ; you know I am to wait for your 
uncle.” 

“ I am going on duty now, but I shall go over to 
the library at precisely ten,” he returned, laughing, 
and disappeared to join his sister. 

Edith’s wardrobe did not display a great variety 
dresses, but those she possessed were rich, and suit- 
ably trimmed. She selected those colors which 
harmonized best with her complexion and those 
patterns best suited to her tall, slight figure, and 
17 


194 


BEECH BLUFF. 


therefore she always appeared dressed in the perfec- 
tion of good taste; 

Having arranged her hair in heavy drooping 
plaits, she put on a dress of rich pearl-colored silk, 
and over her neck a bertha of soft lace. “ What an 
affectation of simplicity I” she thought, looking into 
the glass; and, taking a bouquet which Fred had 
given her, she separated the flowers, and, placed 
some of them in her hair and the rest on the bosom 
of her dress; glancing into the glass, she gave no 
farther thought to her toilet, but took her fan, 
gloves, and letters, and descended to the library. 
Drawing a chair to the table, on which was a lai’ge 
Argand lamp, she proceeded to read the long pages 
from home. She had glanced over them before 
dressing, to satisfy herself that all were well, but 
now she read them leisurely, and after she had 
finished sat with her head resting on her hand. 
She had remained in this position some time, when 
the door opened cautiously, and a figure entered the 
room ; it was that of a man whose garments looked 
stained and travel-worn, and whose face wore a 
wild, anxious expression. He hesitated on seeing 
Edith; then advanced a few paces in a stealthy 
manner, peering around as if trying to get a view 
of her face, for she was sitting with her back to the 
door ; then he stopped a moment, clasped his hands, 
and, as she suddenly turned around, prostrated him- 
self at her feet. She started up, exclaiming, “ Who 
is this ?” 

“Your royal highness’s most humble servant I” 
he answered, in a very low tone. 


AN UNWELCOME GUEST. 


195 


She looked at him in astonishment, but not in 
affright, and as he assumed a kneeling position and 
looked up into her face, she moved from him, and, 
in a tone of extreme indignation, said, “ Mr. Mor- 
gan, if you are in trouble, and I can assist you, 
state to me in what way I can be of assistance, but 
do not assume that position.” 

“ I have come to escort your majesty to the ban- 
queting-halls,” he said, in a loud tone, rising to his 
feet. 

Edith^s face became deathly pale, for the voice 
was not that of Frederick Morgan, whom, in the 
uncertain light, she supposed her vistor to be. But, 
with a wonderful effort, she controlled herself, and, 
instead of making an out-cry, said, in a stern voice: 
“ Not in that garb. Leave the room !” 

He bent his head in servile obedience, and, bow- 
ing and cringing, walked to the door without turn- 
ing his face from Edith and without raising his eyes 
from the floor ; when he reached the door, he 
threw it wide open, and with another low bow 
darted up the stairs, and disappeared in the little 
entry leading to Edith’s room. 

She sprang to the door, closed and locked it, and, 
looking around as if she expected to see an apparition 
in every corner, she dropped into a chair, exclaim- 
ing, “ Oh, it’s Clarence, the maniac brother !” 
Then she started up, trembling in every limb, her 
eyes fairly dilating with terror when the door at the 
other end of the apartment opened, and Mr. Ellis 
entered. • 

“Oh, I am 50 glad you’ve come! I thought it 


196 


BEECn BLUFF. 


was her she exclaimed, sinking again into her 
chair. 

“ He looked at her white face a moment, then 
said, in surprise — 

“ Miss Edith, what’s the matter?’^ 

“ Clarence has been here.” 

“Clarence! Good heavens! But where is he 
now?” 

“ Gone over to the green room.’^ 

“I must call Frederick ! Will you wait here?” 

She nodded, and he proceeded towards the door, 
when some one outside attempted to enter. 

“There he is again! that’s he!” Edith almost 
screamed, holding on to Mr. Ellis’s hand to prevent 
his opening the door. 

“ Who’s there ?” he asked, in a loud tone. 

“ That’s cool !” answered Fred, and Mr. Ellis im- 
mediately unlocked the door. 

“ Oh, I beg your pardon ! I do not wish to in- 
trude,” he said, stiffly turning to go down stairs 
again. 

“ Come in, Fred ; this is no time for nonsense. 
Miss Edith has had a rather dangerous visitor,” he 
said, closing the door. 

“A dangerous visitor?” his eyes fixed on Edith. 

“ Your brother Clarence !” 

“ Good heavens! What’s brought him ? how did 
he escape?” 

“God knows! But, Fred, you must go over to 
him immediately.” 

“ Where is he ?” asked Fred, looking at Edith, 
with a face as white as her own. 


AN UNWELCOME GUEST. 


197 


“ He went into the entry leading to my room,” 
^ she answered. 

“ Your room? where’s your room?” 

“ The green room !” 

“ Who put you into the green room?” he asked 
in an excited tone, while an angry flush passed over 
his face. ^ 

“ Your mother, of course. Don’t become so ex- 
cited, but go over to your brother and prevent his 
appearing below,” answered Mr. Ellis, taking hold 
of his nephew’s arm. 

“ Yes, I’ll go; for I am the only person here who 
possesses any influence over him. But, uncle, you 
go down ; and Miss Edith, I beg of you to make an 
effort and go, too; and do not lead mother to sus- 
pect that anything is wrong!” And he hurried 
from the room. 

“ Clarence will be safe in Fred’s hands,” said Mr. 
Ellis, opening a small closet and producing a de- 
canter of wine. “Drink this. Miss Edith; it will 
revive you,” said he, handing her a wine-glass. 

She took it without hesitation, and drank the con- 
tents of the glass ; its effect soon became apparent 
in the returning color of her cheek and the bright- 
ness of her eye; and in a few moments she left the 
library, chatting in the most animated manner. Mr. 
Ellis knew that her gayety was not natural, but he 
had never seen her look so lovely, or appear so 
charming, and he was not surprised at the buzz of 
admiration that greeted them as they walked through 
the long parlor and stood by Nora, after speaking 
a few words to Mr. and Mrs. Morgan. 


198 


BEECH BLUFF. 


“ I am SO glad that you have brought Miss Stan- 
ford, uncle! for it!s quite eleven, and we have had 
nothing but dance music yet ; and Miss Edith, you’ll 
break the ice for some of the others, will you not?-’ 

“Not just yet, Nora,” answered Mr. Ellis; “you 
must wait until we have recovered ourselves, after 
walking up this long toov^. I felt excessively 
abashed >at being the cynosure of so many eyes, and 
Miss Edith did not bear the ordeal with equanimity, 
I am certain,” he said, looking with a smile at Edith 
and Matty, who were laughing at the idea of his 
being abashed. 

Mr. Ellis was well known and highly esteemed in 
Augusta, and as many of his friends were present, 
he was soon surrounded, and finally carried off into 
the tea-room to join a coterie of gentlemen there. 
Nora, with the most graceful politeness, introduced 
Edith to her friends, and her expectations were not 
disapointed, for being entirely au fait of all the 
amenities of society, Edith soon became the centre 
of a circle, who seemed charmed by her easy unaf- 
fected conversation and sprightly manners. 

“ Mr. Elton, will you lead Miss Stanford to the 
piano?” said Nora to a gentleman who was standing 
near Edith. 

“Shall I have that pleasure, Miss Stanford?” 
said he. 

“ Now, positively no refusal. Miss Edith. You 
remember that you promised,” said Nora, with the 
most engaging smile, as Edith hesitated. 

Mr. Ellis had returned to the parlor, and, as they 


AN UNWELCOME GUEST. 


199 


passed Him on their way to the instrument, he said 
to Edith in a low voice — 

“ If you do not feel like singing, play a short 
piece.’^ 

The encouraging glance of his eye did much to- 
wards giving her courage, and stimulated her to an 
unusual effort ; and she was conscious of singing 
better than she had ever done before. When the 
music had ceased, Mr. Ellis, who was standing near 
his niece, overheard the following remarks, which 
rather mystified him at first: — 

“ She looks quite robust ; has a splendid color, 
and not a sickly eye by any means ; on the contrary, 
very brilliant, very brilliant!” 

“Yes,” answered another gentleman, “but it’s 
hectic, my friend, hectic,, and that is an unnatural 
brilliancy, depend upon it.” 

“ Ah, do you think so 1 Pity such a lovely flower 
should — should” — and he blew his nose, unable to 
finish the sentence. 

“ Should be kept at home, my dear I home is the 
place for invalids; such exciting scenes are too 
much for one so delicate. I think she looks exhaus- 
ted ; but I declare if young Elton is not insisting 
on her singing again ! Eeally, Mr. Ellis ought not 
to allow it. Here he is, now. Good-evening, Mr. 
Ellis 1 I am glad to see you — ” 

“ Uncle Ellis, where is Fred ?” interrupted Nora, 
as the lady, who was mother to a nest of singing- 
birds, who had been pluming their feathers, and 
warbling in young Elton’s ear in vain, after a look 
of despair towards the corner where her daughters 


200 


BEECH BLUFF. 


were huddled together, turned to Mr. Ellis and was 
about to express her solictude for his young friend’s 
health. Nora’s manner- was slightly confused, as 
she repeated the question — “ Where is Fred ?” 

‘‘ He has retired, Nora,” 

“ Eetired ! why, is he sick?” 

At that moment Edith commenced another song, 
and as soon as the attention of the company was 
concentrated on her, Mr. Ellis drew Mr. Morgan into 
the hall, and up into the library, then communicated 
to him the startling intelligence of his son’s sudden 
appearance. 

“ My God !” exclaimed the father, starting to the 
door. Mr Ellis gently forced him into a seat, then 
related the scene in the library. 

“ But, Ellis, where is he now?” 

“In Fred’s hands.” 

“Then, thank. God, he’s safe! Fred can cow him 
in a moment.” And he drew a long breath, as he 
wiped the perspiration from his face. “But, Ellis, 
what a miracle that Miss Edith escaped unharmed !” 

“Yes; it was owing entirely to her presence of 
mind.” 

“ Come,” said Mr. Morgan, after a pause, “let us 
go up and see how they are getting along” — and they 
proceeded to the green room. The door was closed, 
and after listening a moment and hearing no sound, 
Mr. Morgan opened it softly and entered the room. 
Fred was seated by the side of the bed on which 
his brother lay asleep, and motioning to his father 
to leave the room, he cautiously arose and followed 
him into the entry. 


AN UNWELCOME GUEST. 201 

“ Well, my son, you have rather an unpleasant 
job,” said Mr. Morgan. 

“ He is not troublesome at all,” answered Fred. 

“ When I came over here I found him arranging 
his dress to go down to the parlor; he had thrown 
Miss Edith’s clothes out of the window; and for a 
moment was furious at finding that his room had 
been occupied; then he apologized for arriving so 
late, and continued to dress in- the greatest haste.” 

“But how did you get him to lie down?” 

“ By telling him that the queen, who he said was 
waiting for him in the library, would not allow him 
to go into company until he had refreshed himself 
after his journey by a nap, and he immediately 
■ threw himself on the bed. I was fearful that his 
anxiety to get asleep would keep him awake, but 
he fell into a heavy slumber, and as he is exhausted 
from travel and hunger he will probably not awake 
until morning-” 

“ It is fortunate that this room is in a remote 
part of the house,” observed Mr. Ellis. 

“ Yes, the sound of the music and voices cannot 
reach us, and there’s nothing to disturb him. The 
doctor will undoubtedly arrive before morning, and 
will think it advisable to return with him in his 
present weak state ; he will have less difficulty 
with him.” 

“Do you not wish one of us to remain with 
you?” asked Mr. Ellis. 

“ No, I can manage him best alone, if he should . 
awake. You can send one of the boys to lie down 


202 


BEECH BLUFF. 


outside of the door here, to be at hand in case of 
need.” 

“ I will send Christopher,” said Mr. Morgan ; 
and, after being reminded by his son that Edith’s 
clothes were still in the yard, he and Mr. Ellis re- 
turned to the library, leaving Fred to his lonely 
vigil. Some one had taken Edith’s place at the 
piano, and when Mr. Ellis entered the parlor she 
was standing near the door in conversation with a 
gentleman ; the exhilarating effects of the wine had 
disappeared, leaving her pale and with a wearied 
expression of countenance. Mr. Ellis looked at her 
for a moment, then approached and asked if she 
would not like a seat. 

“I would like to leave this warm room for a 
few moments,” she replied, and excusing herself to 
the gentleman with whom she had been conversing, 
she took Mr. Ellis’s arm and went into the dining- 
hall. He procured an ice, and while she was par- 
taking of it informed her of his intention to return 
to the Bluff the following morning. 

- Anthony will come for you this day two weeks.” 

“ Two weeks?” echoed Edith in surprise. 

“ Yes; Nora pleaded for a longer visit, and I have 
consented to another week. Shall you be sorry to 
return to the quiet of Beech Bluff?” 

“ O no; I shall be glad to be at home again,” she 
answered, handing him her saucer. 

He smiled and said, laying a stress on the word 
home — 

“ And I shall be rejoiced to have you all at home 


j AN UNWELCOME GUEST. 203 

again, for I found it very lonely after you left, sur- 
rounded by none but black faces.’^ 

“ Aunt Martha says that you are keeping Miss 
Edith out here too long ; she has been inquired for 
already,’’ said Mary to her father, coming into the 
room, and taking Edith’s hand. 

A quadrille was forming in the tea-room when 
Edith entered the parlor, and her hand was imme- 
diately solicited for the dance. She declined, and 
leaving Mr. Ellis’s side, took Matty’s arm and drew 
her to a sofa. 

“ I am so glad to sit down, Miss Edith !” said 
Matty, who looked excited, and commenced run- 
ning over on her fingers the number of introduc- 
tions she had received. “But I’ve had a splendid 
time and so many invitations to dance ! Aunt Mar- 
tha says that we must positively learn next winter.’’ 

“ Cousin ISTora wants you, Matty,” said Mary, and 
she threw herself into the seat her sister vacated, 
echoing her words: “ ‘ Oh, I am so glad to sit 
down!’ ” But she did not remain long, for she was 
interested in the dancing, and went to a seat near 
the door where she could watch the dancers. Mr. 
Morgan approached and, sitting down by Edith, ex- 
pressed his regret at seeing her looking so pale. 
She knew that he had been apprised of his son’s ar- 
rival, and was not, therefore, surprised when he sud- 
denly remarked in a low voice — • . 

“The evening seems interminable!” — then look- 
ing up, “ I am sorry. Miss Edith, that your enjoy- 
ment has been so much interfered with.” 

“I have enjoyed the evening very much; the 


204 


BEECH BLUFF. 


wine I drank has produced a slight headache, but 
that’s of no consequence,” she replied. 

“You must not give yourself any uneasiness to- 
night; Frederick has perfect control over his brother, 
and will not allow him to leave the green room,” 
he said, after looking around to ascertain that there 
were no listeners, in their neighborhood. 

“ I do not feel at all nervous through any fear,” 
she replied, with a smile. “ Have you learned how 
he entered the house without the knowledge of the 
servants ?” 

“ He climbed up on the arbor and entered at an 
upper window near the library. We *are under 
great obligations to you. Miss Edith, for being 
spared a scene of terror here ; for had you screamed, 
or attempted to rush down stairs, he would have 
become infuriated and followed you, and spread 
consternation and djsmay among our guests.” 

“ Do not give me more credit than I deserve ; I 
supposed at first that he was Frederick, and believ- 
ing for the moment that it was a practical joke, I 
was indignant^ and, forgetting that I was in his 
father’s house, was about to order him from the 
room when I discovered my mistake, and became 
aware that it was his brother. Understanding at 
once that he had conceived the idea that he was in 
the presence Of Koyalty, I humored the fancy, and 
assuming as mucji state as my terror. would allow, 

I ordered him to leave the apartment.” 

“ The most sensible thing you could have done,” 
said Mr. Morgan, quietly. 

“But I think if Mr. Ellis had been one moment ^ 


AN UNWELCOME GUEST. 


205 


later I should have gone dowu to the servant's hall/^ 
she continued. 

“Which would have been quite right. But Mrs. 
Morgan is approaching ; she knows nothing, of the 
matter yet, I shall inform her after the guests have 
departed ; and it’s my wish that Nora and her cou- 
sins be kept in ignorance of it if possible,” he said, 
hurriedly. 

“ What is all this confidential conversation 
about?” asked his wife, “ the North or South ?” she 
added, with a laugh. Observing her husband’s unu- 
sually quiet manner, she continued: “Mr. Morgan, 
I think we have changed characters this evening; I 
am enjoying everything with almost girlish delight, 
and here you, who are usually so full of life, are 
sitting in this corner as quiet as possible. Mr. El- 
ton has been looking over here with envious eyes, 
and thinks you are a perfect monopoly. Miss Edith, 
he has sent me over to ask if you will not sing.” 

“No, Martha; I positively forbid it ; she has giv- 
en us three songs, and we must not impose upon 
good-nature.” And, rising from his seat, Mr. Mor- 
gan beckoned to the young gentlemen his wife had 
named. 

“ There, Elton 1 You say I am a monopoly ! You 
are a Turk to wish Miss Stanford to sing after she 
has already favored us beyond our expectations.” 

“ I would not insist upon it if disagreeable to 
Miss Stanford, certainly,” said Mr. Elton. 

“ Well, take my seat, and make yourself, as agree- 
able as possible; but no exciting topics, remember,” 
said Mr. Morgan, shaking his finger; “ Miss Stan- 
18 


206 


BEECH BLUFF. 


ford is suffering from beadache.” And he walked 
away with his wife, who bestowed a very patroniz- 
ing smile on the couple as she left them. 

It grew late, and to Edith\s unspeakable relief, 
Mr. Elton finally took his leave and the guests gradu- 
ally departed until the rooms wmre entirely deserted 
by all save the family. Nora dropped on the sofa, 
exclaiming: “ Oh, I am glad it’s over! But it went 
off splendidly — a perfect success I” 

Mrs. Morgan was called into the dining-hall, and, 
knowing the nature of the communication she was 
to receive, Edith awaited with considerable anxiety 
her reappearance. She was surprised to see her re- 
turn after a short absence from the parlor, very 
composed in her manner, though a trifle paler, 
which might have been attributed to fatigue. She 
approached the sofa, and said — 

“ Miss Edith, my dear, you had better occupy the 
room next to your pupils as you are not feeling 
very well ; I have ordered your clothes to be carried 
over there. And, girls, you must lock your doors 
to-night, for you know all the silver was brought 
from the bank to-day, and though it is not probable, 
yet it is possible that thieves might be about.” 

“ I am not going to my room until Tick looks 
under the bed 1” exclaimed Nora. 

“ Nor 1 1” “ Nor 1 1” echoed her cousins ; and 

accordingly Tink was dispatched up stairs to search 
for lurking thieves. Edith could not help smiling, 
and Mrs. Morgan, satisfied that her daughter and 
nieces did not suspect the presence of the madman 
in the house, advised them to retire immediately, 


AN UNWELCOME GUEST. 207 

and bade Edith good-night in a much more familiar 
tone and manner than she had hitherto assumed. 

Mr. Ellis and Mrs. Morgan were left alone in the 
parlor, and, after discussing the events of the even- 
ing, Mrs. Morgan heaved a deep sigh, and said — 

“Fred’s infatuation troubles me quite as much as 
Clarence’s insanity.” 

Her brother-in-law stopped short in his walk, 
and looked at her in surprise^ 

“ How long is Miss Edith going to remain at the 
Bluff?” she asked, without appearing to notice his 
astonisnment. 

“ Two years,” he replied, resuming his promenade 
before the piano, the question having given him a 
clue to her meaning. 

“ Two years ; let me see !” she said, thoughtfully ; 
and after a moment’s pause continued: “ Yes, Fred 
will be in Europe two years, and she will have gone 
home when he returns, but I am extremely sorry 
that he has postponed his trip.” 

“ Why has he done so?” asked Mr. Ellis, with an 
effort to appear unconcerned. 

“ He has assigned no reason, but I suspect that 
Miss Edith is the magnet that is keeping him.” 

“ Ah,” said Mr. Ellis, quietly. 

“ Yes, undoubetdly, and she does not seem wholly 
indifferent to him ; I noticed that she wore his 
flowers to-night, which was certainly a very direct 
way of showing that she valued them.” 

Mr. Ellis was quite wide awake, though be made 
no reply. 

After a few moments’ silence, Mrs. Morgan spoke 


208 


BEECH BLUFF. 


again, and with more animation ; “ You know, 
Jacob, that I nev6r could tolerate governesses^ and 
was always so averse to having one in the house 
that we never employed one for Leonora, so you 
may judge how revolting it would be to me to have 
my son marry one.” 

Mr. Ellis’s face flushed, and the vein in his fore- 
head grew larger; but he turned in his walk, and 
made no reply. 

Mrs. Morgan seemed irritated by his silence, and 
asked, in a quick tone, “ What do you think about 
the matter, Jacob?” 

“ I think that the family -would not be disgraced 
by an alliance with Miss Edith,” he answered, in 
the most deliberate manner. 

“ Certainly not, for it would raise her to our 
level; not bring us down at all, which would apply 
to any person beneath us; but nevertheless! do not 
wish my son to stoop when he marries.” 

“ Martha, did you observe anything either in Miss 
Edith’s manner or appearance that would indicate 
that she occupied a position inferior to that of any 
person present this evening?” 

“ But we know that she does.” 

“ That’s not the question. Can you point out a 
single objectionable feature that would cause her 
husband or his family to blush for her?” 

“No, not in society.” 

'•'‘Anywhere^ then? Have you once seen her 
throw out attractions to gentleman, or seem at all 
anxious to win their attention or admiration, to lead 


AN UNWELCOME GUEST. 209 

you to suppose that she is, as the phrase goes, look- 
ing out for a husband ?” 

“ Apimrently not; but Miss Edith is one of that 
quiet, unassuming sort of people, who feel their 
way gradually, and she makes many a point in her 
modest, unconscious way, that a more turbulent but 
less experienced player loses. “ Still waters run 
deep.” 

“I am convinced that you are mistaken in your 
opinion of her character; she is anything but 
artfuir 

“ Time will show ! But, as a particular favor, I 
wish you to discourage Fred’s visit to the Bluff; he 
has signified his intention of spending Easter week 
with you.” 

“ If he proposes it, how can I, with any degree 
of politeness, discourage it, particularly as he is 
going away so soon ?” 

“ Then you can prevent his being thrown much 
into Miss Edith’s society while there.” 

“Not easily, if he feels inclined to seek it; but 
I can suggest a way by which she can be led to re- 
pulse Fred’s advances.” 

“ How is that, Jacob ?” 

“ By making her acquainted with the family in- 
firmity.” 

Mrs. Morgan’s haughty face for a moment flushed, 
then a pained expression passed over it, making her 
brother-in-law almost regret having cauterized the 
tender spot which Clarence’s arrival had already 
inflamed. But the flush and distressed look passed 
off', and with her usual composure she replied — 


210 


BEECH BLUFF. 


“It would not have the least effect. A young 
girl in love is not apt to take into consideration an 
hereditary evil by which her lover possihhj 
be attacked in the future.” 

“ But she is not in love yet, and the knowledge 
may possibly guard her against such a calamity.” 

“ I am not so sure of that; she seemed very much 
depressed this evening.” 

“ Which arose from the shock her nerves had 
previously received,” returned Mr. Ellis, surprised 
that it could be attributed to any other cause, even 
by a person so inventive as Mrs. Morgan. 

“ I think not ; the depression was produced by 
anxiety for Fred’s safety, and would have disap- 
peared had he returned to the parlor. Allow me to 
be the best judge of her sentiments towards him ; I 
have watched her closely for the past few days.” 

Mr. Ellis threw back his hair by a nervous 
movement, and, after looking at his watch, said — 

“ Well, I think I will retire, as I have a long 
ride before me in the morning, and it is not far 
from daylight now.” 

The words were scarcely spoken before the door- 
bell rang furiously, and Dr. was admitted. 

Mr. Morgan came down from the library, and ques- 
tions and explanations ensued on both sides. 

Clarence had been missed the evening previous, 
and the night had been spent in searching for him 
in the neighborhood of the asylum, and after spend- 
ing the morning in looking through Savannah, in 
the suburbs of which the asylum was situated, the 
doctor concluded that his patient had traveled 


AN UNWELCOME GUEST. 


211 


homeward, and he followed immediately. The dis- 
tance, one hundred and twenty-tliree miles, ought 
to have been passed over in a few hours, but delays 
occurred on the road, and when the doctor arrived 
he was in quite a state of excitement for a man 
usually so calm, and expecting to be ushered into 
a scene of confusion, looked in astonishment at 
Mrs. Morgan sitting so quietly at the centre-table 
in her evening dress. 

Clarence was still asleep when the doctor and 
Mr. Morgan entered the green room, and Fred was 
keeping his lonely vigil by the bed-side. 

“ Go to bed, my boy ; I’ll take your place now,” 
said the doctor, and Fred gladly obeyed. Meeting 
his uncle on the stairs his first question was — 

“ How is Miss Edith ? Has she retired ?” 

Yes, some time ago, and with a severe head- 
ache,” replied Mr. Ellis, with a- slight twitching of 
his nostrils; and entering the library he closed the 
door. The light was still burning, and on the table 
were a few faded flowers and Edith’s letters. 

For some time Mr. Ellis stood looking at them, his 
features working convulsively, and his hands clasped 
and resting on the table. 

“Oh, Edith! Edith! dear, precious sunbeam! 
brightening my home for a brief season, and then — 
no, no ! I cannot give her up ! I cannot lose her for- 
ever I 


CH APTEK XIIL 

A FALSE POSITION". 

Soon after daylight, the doctor and his patient 
were on their way back to Savannah, accompanied 
by Mr. Morgan. When the family assembled at a 
late breakfast, and ISTora inquired for her father, 
Mrs. Morgan explained his absence by saying that 
he had been called away by business. Fred was 
the last to enter the breakfast-room. 

“ I hope your headache is entirely dissipated. 
Miss Edith,” said he, taking his father’s seat by her 
side. 

“I feel perfectly well, thank you,” she replied. 

“ And how is your head. Cousin Fred ?” asked 
Matty. 

“ Never felt better in my life,” he replied, though 
his pale face and unusually serious countenance 
belied the assertion. 

“ Parties don’t agree with you and Miss Edith. 
We’ll shut you two up in the library, next time, 
and you can enjoy a quiet evening together,” said 
Matty, laughing. 

At the mention of the library, Edith became 
slightly nervous, and observing Mrs. Morgan’s eye 
fixed upon her, she colored, and dropped her own. 

“ I hope the ‘ next time’ will come soon ; that is, 
if Miss Edith does not object to the tete-a said 
Fred, with the most perfect sang froid^ handing 
Edith a glass of water. 

“ This is all very pleasant, but indeed I must 


A FALSE POSITFON. 213 

leave you,” said Mr. Ellis, looking at his watch, and 
rising suddenly. “ Youdl excuse me, Martha?” 

“ Certainly ; but, Jacob, you’ve not eaten any- 
thing. Won’t you have tirhe to finish your break- 
fast?” asked Mrs. Morgan. 

“ I must be at the bank by eleven, and it’s nearly 
that now. I’ll return to bid you good-by,” he said 
to his daughters, and left the room. 

Although Mrs. Morgan had been in the breakfast- 
room alone with Edith previous to the entrance of 
the others, yet she did not allude to the unpleasant 
occurrence of the previous evening; but asked 
kindly after her health, how she rested, etc. ; and 
then, much in her usual manner, talked about the 
party, criticised the dresses, and eulogized Mr. 
Elton. Edith did not know that Clarence had been 
taken away, but supposed that he was still in the 
green room, attended by his father. At the earliest 
opportunity after breakfast, when Edith had gone 
into the parlor, and was gathering up her gloves 
and fan, which, together with the flowers she had 
worn in her bosom, were lying on the sofa, Fred 
followed her, and communicated in a low voice the 
not unpleasant intelligence that his brother had re- 
turned to the asylum. She felt much relieved, 
though she did not express her feelings in words, 
and, remembering her letters she had left in the 
library, after a few commonplace remarks to Nora, 
who entered while her brother was speaking, Edith 
left the room and went up stairs. Fred followed 
her to the library, and, laughing as she opened the 
door, she pointed to her letters, and said — 


214 


BEECH BLUFF. 


“See! I do not deserve all the credit you have 
given me for being so calm; the manner in which 
my things are thrown about indicates considerable 
excitement.” 

“Uncle Ellis is a luxurious being! his head was 
pillowed on these flowers last night,” said Fred, 
taking a small bunch from the sofa pillow. “I 
wonder if there were any thorns in them !” he said, 
smiling, and examining them closely. I must have 
three of those in your hand; I have only four 
here.” 

“ What can you possibly want with these worths 
less things?” asked Edith, in surprise. 

“ Their perfume has not departed,” he answered, 
taking those she had brought from the parlor. “ I 
have a strange fancy for faded flowers ; in fact, I 
have a passion for flowers in any state, faded or 
fresh, and I regret that one branch of my education 
was so sadly neglected — botany. But,” he continued, 
arranging the flowers and pulling a ribbon from a 
book to tie them with, “ in my ignorance of botani- 
cal terms, I substitute grammatical points, and then 
I have a language of flowers that I understand. 
For instance, this flower (it was lovely in the bou- 
quet; I was struck with its beauty there), this rose 
I call ‘ exclamation point ;’ it denotes wonder, as- 
tonishment, admiration, etc. To your eye it is no- 
thing but a withered flower, but to me it represents 
a day of the past week, it is typical of Christmas 
Eve. By the way, do you remember what Prior 
says? — 

‘ Thy emblem, gracious queen, the British rose, 

Type of sweet rule and gentle majesty.’ 


A FALSE POSITION. 


215 


In all ages flowers have been used as emblems, re 
presenting one thing to the eye and another to the 
understanding. But, to proceed: this — do you see 
those leaves? they form two distinct curves — I do 
not know the name of it, but I call it ‘ parenthesis,’ 
and it indicates a new feature inserted in the pro- 
gramme for Christmas day — prayers^ to be uttered 
in a lower tone of voice. And these are all senten- 
tial marks — comma, semicolon, colon, period, all of 
which in grammar, represent pauses, but to me mo- 
ments lost. By the by, where were you yesterday 
afternoon, that you only appeared at tea-time?” 

“Altering the girls’ dresses,” answered Edith, 
laughing. 

“And unconsciously cultivating a flower for my 
bouquet, a period — full stop — terminating the sen- 
tence or week.” 

Edith picked up her letters, and made a move- 
ment as if to go. 

“ Wait one moment. Here are two more — the 
dash and note of interrogation — last evening and 
to-day ; the first denotes a train of thought suddenly 
broken ofl‘, and the subject changed, and an unex- 
pected turn in the sentiment of the evening; the 
last denotes a question — to he asked.” 'He tied the 
stems together, and, holding them up, said, with a 
light laugh, “ A choice bouquet of grammatical and 
rhetorical points!” 

Fred’s manner was not at all flippant, but so 
earnest and serious that, when Edith began to un- 
derstand his ambiguous language, she felt something 
like alarm, and, echoing his laugh to hide her em- 


216 


BEECH BLUFF. 


barrassraent, sbe stammered something about walk- 
ing out with the girls, and turned to leave the 
room. 

“ Here they are, Jacob !’' said Mrs. Morgan, throw- 
ing open the door almost in Edith’s face, and caus- 
ing her to start suddenly and color violently as she 
observed Mrs. Morgan direct a look of intelligence 
at her son, then a glance full of meaning at her 
brother-in-law. 

“ Miss Edith, Mr. Ellis is about to leave,” Mrs. 
Morgan said, with a return of her old, haughty 
manner, which for a few days she had been gradu- 
ally throwing off 

“ It seems nonsense to bid good-by at every brief 
separation ! I am sorry to have disturbed you,” said 
Mr. Ellis, looking full into Edith’s face; extending 
his hand, he took hers for a moment, then relinquish- 
ed it without the usual gentle pressure; his brown 
eyes had not their wonted soft, warm light, but 
looked coldly upon her, and with a shade of suspi- 
cion in their clear depths. 

“Good-by, Uncle Ellis,” said Fred. “I’ll see 
you again at Easter.” 

“ I thought you were going to Europe next 
month.” 

“Not until May, and if agreeable to you I’ll 
spend Easter week at the Bluff.” 

“I shall be very happy to see you there, but I 
think you are making a mistake in postponing your 
trip,” Miv Ellis said, buttoning up his coat. 

Fred gave his uncle a penetrating glance, then 
dropped his eyes, and with a confident smile, replied 


^ A FALSE POSITION-. 217 

— “ Oh, there’s no danger ; I do not apprehend any 
iceberg s'"' 

Edith did not follow the others down stairs, but 
for a moment leaned against the banister, then 
went over to her own room. Mrs. Morgan’s offended 
haughty manner, and Mr. Ellis’s cold, searching look 
had discovered to her that her position with Fred- 
erick was misunderstood. She saw at once, as if 
suddenly endowed with the gift of clairvoyance^ 
that by his mother she was suspected of using arti- 
fice to keep him so constantly by her side, and of 
having matrimonial designs upon him ; and by his 
uncle, of posessing a spirit of coquetry, and of treat- 
ing his nephew with an appearance of regard, but 
with a view to deceive and disappoint. Since Christ- 
mas morning, Edith had enjoyed Frederick Mor- 
gan's society as she would have done that of any 
agreeable person, and without a thought of inspiring 
a warmer sentiment than a mere present friendship ; 
even the remembrance of which she had no idea 
would last beyond her brief visit. But, in the re- 
trospect of the past few days, she remembered 
many incidents which at the time had made no im- 
pression on her mind, but which, now that she could 
look back upon them, she wondered had not made 
her more reserved and guarded. With considerable 
vexation at herself and Fred, and a slight degree 
of regret at the sudden termination of their plea- 
sant intercourse, she resolved to keep aloof entirely, 
and, if possible, to avoid being left alone with him 
for a single moment. She trusted to the future to 
correct Mr. Ellis’s opinion, and hoped that her re- 
19 


218 


BEECH BLUFF. 


serve and indifference would cause Fred to abandon 
the idea of the Easter visit, which she now fully 
understood was to be made to her. 

It was the last day of their visit ; the following 
morning Edith and her pupils were to return to the 
Bluff They were seated at the tea-table discussing 
the Christmas just past, and speculating on the pro- 
bability of passing the next together, when Christo- 
pher entered with the evening meal. Fred, who 
attributed Edith’s coldness and distant manner to 
coyness, and his mother’s influence, had ceased to 
seek her society, and seldom addressed her save in 
general conversation, believing that at the Bluff, 
when not under the surveillance of his awe-inspir- 
ing mother, an explanation would be brought 
about, and she would look with favor upon his 
suit. Taking the letters and papers from Christo- 
pher, he glanced over them, and retaining a couple, 
handed the rest to his father. 

“One for you. Miss Edith,” said Mr. Morgan, 
laying a letter down by her plate. 

“You must pay for delivery!” exclaimed Nora, 
and with a playful but, Edith afterwards remem- 
bered, a precipitate and confused manner, she 
snatched the letter and put it in her pocket. 

“ Now for my letter 1 What do you demand for 
delivery?” said Edith, after the meal was over, 
going up to Nora. 

“ More than you are able to pay,” she answered, 
laughing, and holding her hand over her pocket 
ran out of the room. 

Edith followed her, though not in any haste, and 


A FALSE POSITION. 


219 


when she entered Nora’s room, she was amazed to 
behold her standing quietly under the light with 
the letter open in her band and reading it with the 
greatest unconcern. 

“What, my letter?” Edith exclaimed, in indig- 
nation and astonishment. 

“ Just be composed. Miss Edith. This letter is 
to me, under cover to you; I will ask you to excuse 
the liberty I have taken with your name after I 
have finished the reading of it” — and she read on to 
the end. 

“ I must request an explanation,” said Edith, de- 
cidedly. 

“Very well, you can have it if you wish. This 
letter is, as you probably by this time mistrust, 
from Cavelli,” replied Nora, with an unblushing 
face. 

“And why was it directed to me ?” asked Edith, 
with dignity. 

“ Simply because mother has very absurd ideas 
upon the subject of letters passing between young 
ladies and gentlemen, and I requested him to write 
under cover to you. I received one day before yes- 
terday, but secured it before Christopher carried 
the bag in.” 

“Miss Morgan, you cannot suppose that I am 
willing to abet you in this deception.” 

“ Certainly I suppose you will not say anything 
about it, for it is my secret; not yours, and you have 
no right to reveal it.” 

“Miss Nora, I entreat you to acknowledge it to 
your parents yourself, and gain their consent to an 


220 


BEECH BLUFF. 


open, honorable correspondence. What confidence 
can you place in a person who encourages you to 
deceive them? It would be an ill return for your 
father’s kindness and hospitality if I were to sanc- 
tion such proceedings. A clandestine correspon- 
dence cannot be prolific of good, and to prevent 
evil consequences I must inform your father this 
evening.” 

“ Do so; it will not matter much, as Cavelli re- 
turns to-morrow, and will make a formal proposal. 
But I do not wish to prevent you from distinguish- 
ing yourself in my brothers eyes, and having some- 
thing to make a merit of to Uncle Ellis; therefore, 
the sooner you relieve your mind to father, the 
earlier you will have Frederick on his knees ; he 
will be infinitely obliged to you if you succeed in 
putting me out of favor with my parents.” And, 
with her most scornful look, she passed Edith and 
descended to the parlor. 

The truth flashed across Edith’s mind as she 
stood, petrified with astonishment, where Nora had 
left. That affable, familiar manner had been as- 
sumed for a selfish purpose, and her object gained, 
Nora had returned to her arrogant ways with insul- 
ting words and scornful, contemptuous looks. Was 
it possible that the stately, polished, refined Leon- 
ora Morgan could so far forget herself as to treat 
with' insult a visitor in her father’s house? To 
take a liberty with that visitor’s name, and then 
throw defiance in her face! Edith walked the floor 
in a state of excitement. She could brook neglect. 


A FALSE POSITION. 221 

disdain, cold treatment, but her Christian temper 
was not proof against insult. 

“ Sweet Heaven I keep me in temper ; she must 
be mad I mad like her brother, only with more 
method in her madness,” she said, aloud, as she 
passed into her own room. After much delibera- 
tion, she concluded to go below, and when her 
pupils had left the parlor, to inform Mrs. Morgan, 
as quietly, calmly as possible, that the letter which 
had occasioned their abrupt departure from the tea- 
room was not addressed to her, but to Leonora from 
Cavelli. She had become quite composed in mind, 
and was packing some things in her trunk when the 
door was thrown violently open, and Matty rushed 
in, exclaiming — 

“Come down. Miss Edith; Cousin Nora has 
fainted, and they can’t bring her to !” 

“ Fainted !” echoed Edith, in surprise, dropping 
the dress she was folding. 

“ Yes. Uncle Morgan had a letter from some one 
in Philadelphia, and when he read it out Cousin 
Nora dropped down like one dead. The letter was 
all about Cavelli, who has been forging Uncle Mor- 
gan’s and papa’s names and drawn ever so much 
money.” 

Edith descended immediately, followed by Matty, 
who trembled like one in an ague fit. When they 
entered the room, Nora was stretched on the sofa, 
and bending over her were her father, mother, and 
brother. Fred was bathing her temples, Mr. Mor- 
gan was chafing her hands, while his wife with 


222 


BEECH BLUFF. 


trembling fingers was trying to loosen ber daughter’s 
dress. 

“ Miss Edith, can you ?” And Edith unhooked 
the dress, raised the poor girl, who was beginning 
to revive, and held a glass of water to her lips. In 
a few moments she was able to sit up, and looking 
around her eyes rested on her father’s face; it 
gradually expanded, then flashed with a sudden fire, 
and making an effort to rise she shrieked, “ It’s 
false ! a base lie !” then sank back upon the sofa, 
and was in another swoon. It was a scene of con- 
fusion: the servants hurrying to and fro procuring 
restoratives; Mrs. Morgan, white as the face on her 
lap, reproaching her husband for his want of con- 
sideration in reading the letter aloud ; and Mr. Mor- 
gan hurling invectives at the scoundrel,” intermin- 
gled with words of endearment addressed to his 
daughter. Mary and Matty, pale and trembling, 
were standing aloof from the sofa, while Frederick 
and Edith, the only calm ones present, were admin- 
istering the remedies, all of which failed to revive 
her the second time. Mr. Morgan dispatched Chris- 
topher after Dr. Elton, the family physician, but 
Fred, becoming impatient at the servant’s delay, 
snatched his hat and dashed out of the house. 

Edith’s resentment had vanished, and she looked 
with compassion on the face which but a short time 
before had lighted up with scorn, and the lips, so 
white and compressed, which had last addressed her 
with insolence and contempt. The old doctor whose 
ear had caught Nora’s first wailing cry when she 
entered the world, and with doubled- up fists seemed 


A FALSE POSITION. 


223 


ready to battle with its troubles, bustled into the 
room, and approaching the sofa ordered every one 
to leave it but Mrs. Morgan. He proceeded to ap- 
ply active remedies, scolding Mr. Morgan the while 
for having read the news before his daughter, whom 
he pronounced a simpleton for ever having looked 
upon such a puppy as Cavelli. A family physician 
generally becomes the repository of the family secrets 
and is therefore privileged to express his opinion on 
other matters than those pertaining to his profession. 
Dr. Elton was no exception ; in Mr. Morgan’s family, 
he was regarded as an oracle, and Mrs. Morgan, 
looked up to him almost with veneration. He was 
the only person to whose opinion Nora would ever 
yield, or whose advice she ever asked, and when 
she opened her eyes and saw his kind face bending 
over her, she gave him a look of recognition, then 
burst into tears. 

“There, be quiet, my daughter; don’t distress 
yourself,” he said, soothingly. “ I am going to 
take you up stairs, and then you can tell me all 
your troubles! Miss Stanford, will you — ” * 

“ Not her! I hate her I She shall not touch me 1” 
exclaimed Nora, passionately. 

“ Tush 1 tush I not so loud 1” said the doctor, in a 
peremptory tone. 

Edith retired to the farther part of the room, 
where Nora could not see her, thinking that her 
presence recalled the letter, and after she had been 
taken up stairs by her father and the doctor, bade 
Fred good- night and, with the girls, retired to her 
chamber. 


224 : 


BEECH BLUFF. 


“ It was long before Editb laid her head upon her 
pillow, and still longer before she closed her eyes 
in sleep. She reviewed her visit which had been 
so full of events; she reviewed Nora’s conduct, 
which surprised, alarmed her ; for though there be 
many such elsewhere, she had never before met with 
her parallel. While looking at Nora, Edith had 
determined to say nothing about the letters, but, on 
reflection, she concluded that it would be best to 
mention the subject to Mr. Morgan, as Nora’s let- 
ters might possibly have some connection with the 
one he had received ; and more particularly as she 
remembered that the envelopes bore her name, and 
if found they would implicate herself in the secret 
correspondence. 

She was turning this over in her mind the next 
morning, and trying to arrive at a decision how to 
broach the subject in the most delicate manner, 
when Mr. Morgan entered the breakfast room, where 
she was seated alone, and handing her a letter 
said — 

“You dropped this last evening. Miss Edith.^» 

She did not raise her hand to receive it, but an- 
swered — “ It does not belong to me Mr Morgan.” 

He looked at her in surprise, then examined the 
envelope. 

“ If I understand the superscription, it certainly 
does belong to Miss Edith Stanford,” he returned, 
with a faint smile. 

“ The envelope is directed to me, but the letter is 
addressed to your daughter,” she replied, looking 


A FALSE POSITION. 


225 


up into his face with her large, honest eyes, while a 
blush of shame, shame for Leonora dyed her cheek. 

“ My daughter ?” 

“ From Cavelli.’' 

“Is it possible!” he exclaimed, while every nerve 
in his face worked; astonishment and grief at his 
daughter’s duplicity being for the moment the para- 
mount emotions of his mind ; then rage at Cavelli 
seemed to take possession of him, and he strode up 
and down the apartment heaping imprecations on 
the head of the “ foreign scoundrel.” 

“ Miss Stanford,” he said, stopping suddenly. 
“ I cannot believe that you have been an abettor — 
no, not an abettor^ for all concerned in such a pro- 
ceeding are principals; but have you sanctioned 
the use of your name for such an unworthy pur- 
pose ?” 

“ Certainly not, Mr. Morgan ; it only came to my 
knowledge last evening when I followed your daugh- 
ter out of the room for the purpose of getting 
from her my letter, as I supposed it to be.” 

“And would you have returned to the Bluff 
without apprising her parents of the atrocious de- 
ception being practised upon them in the carrying 
on of a clandestine correspondence?” 

“ I was about to inform you of the fact, when I 
was told that you had received a letter, the reading 
of which had affected your daughter so painfully.” 

“ So painfully I” he repeated, then, sitting down, 
said — 

“ Miss Edith, you have become, during your short 
visit, acquainted with much that is unpleasant, con- 


226 


BEECH BLUFF. 


nected with my family — my son’s insanity, and my 
daughter’s infatuation, which may, God knows I end 
in insanity also.” For some moments he sat with 
his head on his hand, then, as if thinking aloud, 
continued — “ Poor Clarence ! he was the first to in- 
herit the curse which rests over his mother’s family, 
and I could, but I will not execrate her, who’hast- 
ened its course on him. He was a noble fellow, 
but in an evil moment he met one who fascinated 
him, who inspired a love as deep and true as was 
ever cherished for woman. They met in Europe, 
were betrothed and the day fixed for their marriage; 
she returned to America, and he made arrangements 
to' follow in a month. The day he arrived in Liver- 
pool, he was taken ill, and when the vessel sailed 
that was to have borne him home he was prostrated 
by fever. Months elapsed, and scarcely able to 
travel, he embarked for Hew York, and reached 
there the night his betrothed was married to another. 
A few weeks after, he returned to us impaired in 
health, dejected and depressed, and after a few days 
of seclusion, proceeded to furnish the green room, 
frequently muttering to himself — ‘ Forsaken, for- 
saken.’ When it was completed, he procured a 
suit of clothes entirely green, which he called the 
livery of the forsaken, and when he appeared in 
them the dreadful truth was forced upon our minds 
that he was bereft of reason. For days he would 
seclude himself, and then suddenly appear at the 
table. Sometimes he would be very communicative, 
talking a great deal about his Helen, at others he 
would remain perfectly silent. At length he com- 


A FALSE POSITION’. 


227 


menced to rave wildly, finally became malicious, 
and after twice attempting my life, I consented, re- 
luctantly, to send him to Savannah. Poor boy ! 
the light of reason will never drawn upon his mind 
again.^’ 

Matty entered and thoughtlessly greeted her uncle 
with her saucy good-morning and quick kiss; he 
did not make the usual hearty response, but turned 
his head away and fumbled in his pocket, where he 
had put Nora’s letter. 

“Your father will be up to-day, Mary,” he said, 
at length. 

“ Papa coming ! what for, uncle ?” 

“ On business, rfty dear ; I sent for him last even- 
ing,” replied Mr. Morgan. And taking the letter 
that he had received the evening before he carefully 
read it over. 

“ Martha,” he said, addressing his wife, who en- 
tered with a face which bore evidence of a sleepless 
night — “ Martha, was Cavelli present the evening I 
mentioned having sent a large sum of money to my 
agent in Philadelphia to invest?” 

“ I do not remember,” she replied, briefly. 

“ He was, uncle ; it was the evening before the 
party.” 

“ So it was ; the evening before he left, and he 
without doubt conceived the idea of forging the 
draft that same night. The villian ! But he must 
have an accomplice in New York, for those letters” 
(turning to Edith) “ were written in Philadelphia 
and sent to New York to be mailed. 

“ I prefer to hear nothing further on the subject. 


228 


BEECH BLUFF. 


Mr. Morgan,” said his wife, with a look and tone 
indicating that it was an unpleasant one to her. 

The breakfast was eaten in silence. Fred came 
in as the others arose from the table, and when his 
mother left the room her husband renewed the sub- 
ject so disagreeable to her and discussed it with his 
son. 

It was near noon when Mr. Ellis arrived, and 
after an interview with Mr. Morgan in the library, 
he entered the parlor and informed Eolith and his 
daughters that he should start that evening for 
Philadelphia. 

“ What are you going for, papa ?” asked Matty. 

“ On business, my child.” 

“ About the forgery, papa ?” asked Mary, in a 
low voice. 

“ Yes, my dear,” he replied, smiling at her cu- 
riosity. 

Immediately after dinner the carriage was at the 
door, and bidding good-bye to all save Nora, whom 
they were not allowed to see, Edith and her pupils 
were whirling over the road to the Bluff. 


CHAPTER XIV. 


DISAPPOINTED HOPES. 

“ Oh, ’tis the curse in love, and still approv’d. 

When women cannot love where they’re beloved.” 

Weeks passed away quietly; the round of school 
duties only interrupted for a day by Mr. Ellis’s 
return from his journey, which proved unsatisfac- 
tory, for Oavelli had managed to effect his escape 
to his own country. 

Easter came, and with it Fred, who brought the 
intelligence that Xora was quite melancholy, seeing 
few visitors, and seldom going out. Her friends 
were becoming alarmed, and were planning schemes 
to drUw her from home, in the hope that new scenes 
and fresh faces would restore the tone of her mind, 
and lead her to forget him who, for selfish and 
wicked purposes, had so trifled with her affections. 
In a moment of confidence, Nora had revealed to 
her mother that Cavelli had proposed a private 
marriage, urging it on the plea that her parents 
would never give their consent, and, in the event 
of his being called to Italy by his father, she might, 
during his absence, be persuaded to marry another. 
But if they were married secretly, he believed that 
after a brief period of alienation she would be for- 
given by her parents, and he would be recalled. 

Fred seemed very quiet, save at times, when 
Matty’s exuberant spirits would rouse him, and 
together they would fly through the house, making 
20 


230 


BEECH BLUFF. 


it ring with their merry laughter. Edith observed 
the same rule of conduct that had governed her 
actions during the last two weeks of her visit at his 
father’s house. Without making her motive appa- 
rent, so as to attract the observation of her pupils, 
she contrived to be in his society only when they 
or Mr. Ellis were present. But several timeSj and 
always at the piano, she fancied that his voice as- 
sumed a tender tone, and though his words were 
what any one might have uttered, yet the look that 
often accompanied them revealed more than words 
could have expressed. 

“ She knew she was by him beloved ; she knew, 

For quickly comes such knowledge, that his heart 
Was darkened by her shadow.” 

And when, wishing to give him no cause to think 
his sentiments reciprocated she rose from the in- 
strument with a quiet, cold manner, as she moved 
away she saw his hand tremble and a shadow gather 
on his brow. 

Easter week expired, and Edith and her pupils 
returned to the school-room, but Fred did not re- 
turn to Augusta. He liked the Bluff, and thought 
it had improved wonderfully ; he was charmed with 
its rural beauty, and, considering that he could not 
visit it again for two years, he concluded to protract 
his stay another week. 

Mr. Ellis had treated Edith with unvarying kind- 
ness, but with studied reserve since the morning he 
had seen her in the library with his nephew. She 
now seldom saw the bright look on his face, and 
more than once, when, at the request of his daughters, 
he accompanied her playing with his flute, at Fred s 


DISAPPOINTED HOPES. 


231 


approacli he had taken it from his lips, and, with a 
complaint that the instruments did not chord, or 
that his flute was out of order, he had left the room. 
At such times, Matty, half in earnest, half in jest, 
would scold her cousin for interrupting the delight- 
ful music, and, as a penalty for his impudence, 
would compel him to talk to her instead of Miss 
Edith. 

A few days after the Easter vacation, Edith had 
dismissed her pupils, and was alone in the school- 
room, busily engaged in writing letters. She was 
rapidly penning her thoughts when her attention 
became diverted by the sound of footsteps and voices 
in the library. The door between the two rooms 
was ajar, and, that leading into the parlor closed and 
locked on the inside. The first words of the con- 
versation between Fred and his uncle told Edith 
that it was a private one, and that she of all the 
household should not be a listener. But what should 
she do? Should she notify them of her proximity 
by a cough ? or open the door, and, waiving all 
delicacy, pass throtigh the library ? While she was 
deliberating the conversation continued, and re- 
vealed to her Fred’s mission to the Bluff, which, to 
do justice to her woman’s instinct, she had more 
than half suspected before. His burning words fell 
on her ear, as, in low tones, he revealed to his uncle 
his love for her, and then, in a passionate burst, 
begged him to intercede, should his own pleadings 
fail. Mr. Ellis replied, but in tones so low the 
words did not reach her. 

“ I know, uncle, I know the curse that rests over 


232 


BEECH BLUFF. 


our house ; but am I to be debarred from all that 
makes life happy ? Must I give up the blessed 
hope of ever clasping a wife to my bosom ? Must 
I smother this ardent love, and coldly bid her fare- 
well forever ? 0 God ! that we should be so cursed, 

so cursed! But, uncle, if she does love me, and 
after I have made known all to her, she is willing 
to take me for better, for worse^ am I not justified 
in marrying ? or, out of regard for the generation 
yet unborn, perhaps never to he horn^ must I dash 
the cup of happiness aside when it is just within 
my grasp? No, uncle, I cannot see the righteous- 
ness of that; that would be madness indeed. 

“ But, Fred, you acknowledge that you have re- 
ceived no proof that she loves you. I fear you are 
too sanguine, my boy,” said Mr. Ellis, clearing his 
throat. 

“ I have received no evidence save her blushes 
and apparent timidity when I approach, but — ” 

“ Do not misinterpret those; they may arise from 
a knowledge of your sentiments and a wish not to 
encourage them.” 

“ So said my mother, and she said more. Uncle 
Ellis, do not consider me impertiment ; the question 
is not prompted by idle curiosity, but from a wish 
to know the truth! Was my mother right when 
she bade me stifle my love, and told me that you 
wished to retain Miss Edith in your family, not as 
your daughers’ governess, but as — as — your wife f 
Uncle, do you love her, too?” 

Now she listened ! now she raised the heavy bands 
of hair that covered her ear and bent forwards to 


DISAPrOINTED HOPES. 


233 


catch the reply. But she knew it already ; she 
knew, notwithstanding his distant manner, that 
he did love her, and with the smile of confidence 
that parted her lips there mingled the shadow of a 
regret at the pang Fred must feel when he heard 
the confirmation of his mother’s words. She heard 
Mr. Ellis’s step in a distant part of the room, heard 
it return, and then the words— 

“ Frederick, while Miss Edith remains in my 
house I look upon her as my ward^ and, as a con- 
scientious guardian, having her happiness in view, 
I have questioned your motive in coming to thb 
Bluff; believing that her happiness would not be 
promoted by becoming a member of your father’s 
family, both on account of that blight, insanity, 
which might possibly visit you^ and make her more 
than a widow, and on account of the pride of your 
mother and sister, which would forbid their receiv- 
ing your wife with cordiality if she had previously 
occupied a position one grade below theirs, I have 
striven to discourage you and prevent, if possible, 
your making proposals. But, Frederick, if she, 
with a full knowledge of all the trials she may be 
called to endure, willingly consents to become your 
wife, to share your joys and sorrows, then I say 
God speed.” 

She heard no more ; enough had reached her ear, 
and, as a draught of air closed the door, she arose, 
and, with a face white as the driven snow, clasped 
her cold hands, and, with a look of agony, stood for 
a moment like one upon whom had fallen a sudden 
blight; then her white lips parted, and the words 


234 


BEECH BLUFF. 


“his wctt'dP'' were uttered in a tone so low, so full 
of misery that to her they seemed to contain the 
very essence of unhappiness. She leaned her bowed 
head upon the desk, and remained so motionless 
that she seemed a perfect statue. The shades of 
evening had gathered and darkened the room when 
she lifted her head and murmured, “ Keep yourself 
from idols.” Her face was still colorless, and the 
look of suffering still there, but she repeated, ^'■Keep 
yourselves from idols and, taking a shawl, threw 
it over her shoulders, listened a moment at the door, 
then opened it, and, passing through the library, 
stepped out upon the piazza. Long she paced up 
and down, heedless that her hair and clothes were 
becoming damp with the heavy southern dew, and 
forgetful that the sound of the tea-bell had fallen on 
her ear when she closed the school-room door ; she 
walked, slowly back and forth, with the moonlight 
playing on her drooping figure, and when the bell 
again sounded, she started as if awakened from a 
deep sleep. Plesitating a second, she went up to 
her room for a few moments while the family were 
assembling, and then descended to the tea-room, 
her face wearing its usual look of sweet serenity. 
In answer to the girls’ questions, she stated that she 
had been writing letters and walking on the piazza. 

“ We thought that you were lying down, because 
you had the headache this afternoon, and papa told 
Aunt Cilia not to disturb you,” said Mary. 

She observed the look of scrutiny with which 
Mr. Ellis regarded her as she entered the room, but 
the usual blush did not rise to her face ; she no- 


DISAPPOINTED HOPES. 


835 


ticed, too, Fred's tender, anxious expression, and 
his nervous, trembling manner as he placed a chair 
for her, and, contrary to his usual custom, sat down 
by her side; but it did not produce a feeling be- 
yond that of strong indifference until Matty, in pass- 
ing to her own seat, stooped and kissed her cheek, 
saying, “I am so sorry your head aches. Miss 
Edith.” Then she felt a sudden reaction; the 
blood like a torrent rushed to her face, and her 
breast heaved with suppressed emotion. But it was 
of momentary duration, and when Mr. Ellis’s clear 
voice uttered the grace, she made the sign of the 
cross with her accustomed devotion. 

After tea, remembering her unfinished letters, 
she bade the girls good-night at the foot of the 
stairs, saying that she was going to the school room 
for a few moments. She did not take a light, but 
left the door open, and by the light of the lamp 
burning on the library table she gathered up her 
writing materials and was closing the desk when 
she heard a footstep, and immediately after a shadow 
fell across the lid. Looking around, she discovered 
Frederick Morgan standing in the door, and, bid- 
ding him a quiet good-night, passed him on the 
threshold, and was rapidly, leaving the room when 
he started forward, and, in a quick, earnest tone, 
begged her to stop one moment. 

Miss Edith, it is not late, and can you not spare 
me one moment?” 

She turned, and, without saying a word, laid her 
portfolio on the table, and, with her full, dark eye 


236 


BEECH BLUFF. 


bent upon him with a cold, passive look, stood 
ready to listen. 

“Oh, Edith! do not look upon me in that forbid- 
ding manner. You must know why I have sought 
this interview,” he exclaimed, advancing with his 
hands clasped, and then recoiling as he met her 
frigid look. 

“I do know, Mr. Morgan, for I was an unwilling 
listener to the conversation between yourself and 
Mr. Ellis in this room this afternoon,” she replied, 
in a low, steady voice. 

“Miss Edith!” 

“ I was in the school-room ; and since I am aware 
of your — your intentions^ I will spare you the — ” 

“Oh, Edith! you do not, you cannot mean that — ” 

“That though I entertain for you a warm friend- 
ship, I do not love you,” she interrupted. 

“My God! And must I share Clarence’s fate?” 
he exclaimed, vehemently, his tall, slight figure 
bending like a willow, and his hands pressed over 
his blanched face. Then he dropped them, and, 
approaching her with suddenness, exclaimed, in a 
low, eager tone — 

“ Dear Edith, is it that you fear that I may be- 
come insane V 

“E'o, Mr. — Frederick — ” 

“ Thank you, Edith,” he interrupted. And she 
continued — 

“ It is because I do — ” 

“Do not repeat those words !” he said, hastily 
and with strong feeling. “I must love you still. 
But oh, Edith, if you could but love me, if you 


DISAPPOINTED HOPES. . 237 

would be mine^ I would make your life so happjp! 
and with this love that passeth understanding I 
would love you even to this life’s end I” 

“ No, Frederick, it cannot be.” 

“0 God! And this heart was so full hope, and 
now — ” A “tablet- of unutterable thoughts” passed 
over his face, and, snatching her hand, he pressed 
it again and again to his icy lips, and, without an- 
other word, dropped into a chair, his frame quiver- 
ing and his head bowed on his knee, as if utterly 
crushed. Edith had experienced the same anguish 
but a few hours before, and she knew how like a 
withering blight comes the knowledge that the one 
for whom a wealth of love has been garnered up is 
indifferent; that the idol, whose every look, word, 
and tone has been cherished, and, in the absence of 
the loved one, thought and dreamed on, is cold, un- 
loving. She had experienced that agony of mind 
on learning that the love so confident and hopeful, 
is naught to its object ; and though she had prayed 
long and fervently, yet she still felt as if suddenly 
bereft of every earthly happiness. She experienced 
a strong sense of guilt in having made unto herself 
another god ; and, repenting her own sinfulness, 
and pitying Fred’s distress, she bent her head, and 
breathed into his ear what she had been so continu- 
ally repeating to herself — “ Keep yourselves from 
idols ; Frederick, He has said. Keep yourselves from 
idols y 

With quick steps, heedless of the wailing cry 
Edith I” she passed from the library to her own 
room; and, throwing on a wrapper, seated herself 


238 ' BEECH BLUFF. 

to add a few more words to lief motber’s letter : — 

“ * * * I think, dear mother, at the close of the 
■^^resent year I will rmyn and return to you. Not 
that I do not continue pleased with my situation, 
for I have yet the first fault to find ; I am fondly at- 
tached to my dear pupils, and will part with them 
Avith feelings of the deepest regret ; but I do not 
■think I should be happy if I were to remain another 
year ; as my mind is quite made up, you may ex- 
pect me home when the foliage around the little 
farm has put on its gay fall dress, and Brother 
George can obtain leave of absence from his har- 
vesters to come for me. * * *” 

“ Why, Miss Eden, honey, it am nine o’clock, and 
bress yer heart if yer didn’t sleep in yer dressin’- 
gown! Am yer sick, honey?” exclaimed Aunt 
Cilia, the next morning, arousing Edith from a 
sound sleep. Alarmed at the lateness of the hour, 
she sprang from her couch, and with the greatest 
precipitancy commenced to dress, while the old 
negro woman continued — “ Lor’ a massy ! how pale 
de chile am ! What am de matter ? Notting f Don’t 
b’lieve dat, no how, fur yer habn’t bin de same chile 
since de visit to ’Gusta, and I jis b’lieve dat. Miss 
Morgan and Miss Nora didn’t treat yer proper. 
Know’d bow’d be, an’ tole young massa so ; but yer 
couldn’t stay to hum an’ de young missuses go Avay 
for tree weeks, nohow.” And, muttering something 
about Miss Eden’s breakfast, she hurried down 
stairs. 

Edith went immediately to the school-room, 
where she found her pupils awaiting her, and, ex- 


DISAPPOINTED HOPES. 


289 


cased ber tardy appearance by saying that she had 
sat up very late, and consequently overslept herself.^_^ 
At dinner-time ' she learned from Matty that her"^ 
cousin had concluded to take passage and sail for 
Europe that day fortnight, and had accordingly 
taken his departure from the Bluff that morning. 


CHAPTER Xy. 

OVERSHADOWED. 

“ Eyes, look your last ! 
Arms, take your last embrace ! and, lips, O you, 

The doors of breath, seal with a righteous kiss 
A dateless bargain to engrossing death I” 

“ Death lies on her like an untimely frost 
Upon the sweetest flower of all the field.” 

Weeks glided rapidly by. Edith was, if possi- 
ble, more conscientious in the discharge of her 
duties, and was amply repaid for her pains in the 
rapid progress which her pupils made in their 
studies. Occasionally Mr. Ellis visited the school- 
room and listened to the recitations, and frequently 
sat in the parlor when she was giving the music- 
lessons. He seemed to experience a feeling of anxi- 
ety regarding her health, and often chided her for 
remaining so late in the school-room, and not taking 
more exercise. Finally he insisted upon her riding 
after school hours, with her pupils, and accordingly, 
every day the horses were found waiting at the door 
when the lessons were finished. With Uncle An- 
thony or Uncle Sigh in attendance, they would 
scour the country round the Bluff, often returning 
after nightfall ; but, notwithstanding this- exercise, 
of which Edith was very fond, her cheeks lost its 
roundness and the color faded from it gradually 
until it looked wan and white. 

Mr. Ellis proposed another short vacation, saying 
that he did not think the girls liked to study in warm 


OVERSHADOWED. 241 

weather; but Edith informed him of her intention 
to return home in September, and expressed a wish 
to be allow’ed to make the most of the time while 
she was at the Bluff, as she had laid out a course of 
study which she wished her pupils to complete be- 
fore she left them. Mr. Ellis regarded her earnestly 
as she leaned against the pillar of the piazza, and 
asked “if she thought her health would not permit 
her to remain another year ?” She replied that her 
mother’s health was delicate, and they all wished 
her to return home. He paced up and down with 
hjs firm, regular step, but without making further 
remark, and without seeming to notice her absence 
when she went into the house. 

Later in the evening, when she was sitting in the 
library correcting French exercises, with the girls 
on either side of her, he entered with his paper, 
and, sitting down at the same table, in a few mo- 
ments seemed wholly absorbed in its contents. Toy- 
ing with her pencil, she raised her hand suddenly, 
and a ring which she wore fell to the floor; he 
stooped immediately, picked it up, and laid it on 
the table. Matty took it, and was about to replace 
it on Edith’s finger when she said — 

“Not that finger, dear; this one.” 

“ Why, Miss Edith, you always used to wear it on 
your third finger.” 

“I know, my dear; but it is too large for that 
one now.” She looked up as she spoke, but her 
glance fell immediately beneath the earnest, burn- 
ing gaze of his brown eyes. 

Matty retained the hand a moment ; then placed 

21 


242 


BEECH BLUFF. 


it on the table as gently as if it were made of wax, 
and as she did so arose from her chair. Edith felt 
something very like a tear drop on her wrist; and, 
looking up quickly, saw that Matty’s cheek was wet. 
Waiting a moment not to attract the attention of 
Mary and her father, who was again buried in his 
paper, she quietly left the room, and followed her 
up stairs. Sobs fell on her ear as she opened the 
door of the girls’ chamber, and on the bed lay Matty, 
weeping convulsively. 

“Why, Matty, dear, what is the matter?” she 
asked, in her gentle, affectionate tones. 

“ 0 dear ! Miss Edith, you are not happy,” sob- 
bed forth Matty. 

“ Not happy ? What makes you think so, dar- 
ling?” 

“ Because you — you told papa that you were go — 
going home, and you look so pale and thin, and 
sometimes so sad. O, Miss Edith !” And she threw 
her arms around Edith’s neck, and pressed her cheek 
to her own tear-stained face. 

“ But darling, you must not distress yourself so. 
Am I not always cheerful ?” 

“Yes, Miss Edith, but not happy. Won’t you 
stay with us, for we all love you so? All of us — 
Mary, and I, and papal he does, Miss Edith; I 
know he does.” 

“ Hush, darling ! You know I have a mother and 
sister at home, and I cannot forget my duty to 
them,” replied Edith, her own tears now mingling 
with Matty’s. 

“ But they don’t need you as much as — as papa 


OVERSHADOWED. 


243 


and Mary ! Ob, do stay, dear Miss Editb, and wben 
I am gone take my place.” 

“ Gone? What do you mean, Matty ?” 

She did not reply, but renewed her sobs and 
clung still closer to Edith’s neck. After waiting a 
moment, Edith urged — 

“Tell me, dear, what you mean ?” 

“Miss Edith,” said Matty, becoming suddenly 
calm, and raising her head from Edith’s shoulder, 
“ I am going to die, and I cannot bear the thought 
that papa and little Mary will be left alone.” 

“Matty,” said Edith, rising, “you must not talk 
in this strain ; I cannot permit you to distress your- 
self so foolishly.” But she was far from being free 
from alarm, for Matty’s hands were burning, and 
her face flushed, and in answer to Edith’s question 
she said that her head “ached dreadfully.” 

“ Come, my dear ; let me undress you and get 
you into bed, and in the morning you will be all 
right.” 

“ I do not like to go to bed. Miss Edith.” 

“Why not, my dear?” 

“ Because I shall never rise again.” 

“ Do you not see how unhappy you are making 
me, Matty?” 

“ Well, I’ll be undressed ; but I cannot think of 
my prayers, my head throbs and beats so — ” 

“ Kever mind, my darling your suffering is a 
prayer the good God will not be unmindful of ; I 
will say a litany for you.” 

“ Thank you, Miss Edith ; now if my head would 
only stop aching, I might get to sleep.” 


244 


BEECH BLUFF. 


“ Compose yourself, darling, and I will sing to 
you.” 

“Yes, Miss Edith, that’s what I want — a hymn.” 
And, putting one hand under her pillow, and the 
other on Edith’s shoulder, she looked up into her 
face, and a smile played around her mouth as Edith 
commenced a familiar hymn to the virgin. 

Before it was finished her eyes were closed, and, 
moving softly from her seat on the bedside, Edith 
hastened down stairs and communicated to Mr. 
Ellis her fears that Matty was seriously ill. 

“ She had the headache all day, but would not 
let me tell you, because she did not wish to trouble 
you,” said Mary. 

“ Have you observed anything peculiar about 
her ?” inquired Mr. Ellis. 

“ There was a rash out on her neck at dinner- 
time, but it all went off,” answered Mary. 

Mr. Ellis changed countenance, and said — “ I will 
send to town for Dr. Elton; I cannot trust my own 
skill.” And, calling Uncle Anthony, he ordered 
him to saddle the best horse, and take a note to 
Augusta immediately. 

^ “ Is there any disease prevalent in the neighbor- 
hood?” asked Edith, after Mr. Ellis had visited 
Matty and examined her skin closely. 

“ Scarlet fever,” he answered, briefly. She asked 
no more questions, but, putting Mary into her own 
bed, prepared herself to watch beside Matty, who 
was becoming listless, and talked incoherently in 
her sleep. Her comatose, delirious symptoms 
seemed to alarm Mr. Ellis, nnd he endeavored to 


OVERSHADOWED. 


245 


arouse her for the purpose of administering a gen- 
tle medicine to modify the course of the disease, 
saying to Edith that scarlet fever generally termin- 
ated favorably without treatment unless of the 
malignant. 

“ Then it is scarlet fever?” 

“ No doubt of it,” he replied, looking at his 
watch, then out of the window, anxiously. All the 
long night they watched beside her, and at the break 
of day the welcome sound of horses’ feet fell on 
their ears. Dr. Elton’s kind face presented itself 
at the door of the sick room, and with him Father 
Ward, to whom Edith had dispatched a note by 
Uncle Anthony. 

In suspense they awaited the doctor’s opinion ; 
but he expressed none, and they could learn nothing 
from the immobility of his face, but they knew 
from his ceaseless efforts to arouse her, and from his 
resort at length to tonics and stimulants, that it 
was an extreme case. Her system seemed to be at 
once overwhelmed by the force of the disease, and 
the symptoms to evince an extraordinary degree of 
weakness. Her face was livid, the muscles relaxed, 
and her respiration preternaturally slow. Dr. Elton 
did not leave the room, scarcely the bedside, during 
the day. A few feeble attempts where made at re- 
action, but towards night her system ceased to make 
resistance, and, with a face betraying strong emo- 
tion, the doctor turned to Mr. Ellis and said, “ There 
is no hope.’’ 

Without uttering a word, Mr. Elns dropped his 


BEECH BLUFF. 


246 

head upon the pillow, his strong frame bowed in an 
agony of grief. 

Matty opened her eyes, and, with a feeble efibrt, 
turned her head and said, “ Papa !” 

Her father raised his head and stepped forward 
so that she could see him. 

“Papa” — he bent his head to catch her words 
— “ Mamma is waiting for me now, and after a while 
I will wait with her for you, and Mary, and Miss 
Edith. Papa, you mustn’t grieve for me, for I’m 
very happy. Where’s Mary ?” 

Her sister had been kept from the room, much 
against her will, and when Edith opened the door 
and beckoned to her, she entered, and, throwing 
herself on the bed, uttered a cry of anguish. 

“ Don’t, dear sister ! I am only going home to tell 
mamma and God that you are coming. Yon are 
good, dear Mary, but be better, he better^'' She 
turned to Edith, who was on the other side of the 
bed, and motioned for her to put her head down. 
“ Stay with them. Miss Edith, and love them, and 
comfort them, and, dear Miss Edith, be yourself 
happy. Tell all the people good-by; and — ISTelly 
belongs to me — I give her to you. Miss Edith, to 
bring to heaven. How, kiss me; when I am in 
heaven, I will pray for you ; God sent you to pre- 
pare me for this early death, and you have been 
^ faithful. Miss Edith, but dont leave them. Wait till 
Papa is a GaihoUc^ my going and your staying will 
make him on^” — something of the old roguish 
smile played around her mouth, but it was transient. 
Turning to her father she said in a failing voice, 


OVEKSHADOWED. 247 

“dear papa, don’t send Mary to Holy Communion 
aloneP 

“ God willing, my precious child, 1 will go with 
hei\^'' replied the grief stricken father ; a look of in- 
expressible happiness passed over Matty’s face. 
The Crucifix which she held, she raised to his 
lips — then pressed it to her own ; Father Ward who 
had administered the last sacraments during her 
first lucid interval, was kneeling with Edith, and 
reciting the prayers for the dying. Fainter and 
fainter came the words Jesus” and “ Mary” from 
those dying lips, until at length her hand relaxed 
its feeble hold of the Crucifix — and her last breath 
bore with it the sacred name of her Savior. 

Mary’s hand slid from beneath her father’s, and, 
with a low moan, she dropped upon the floor. 
Good Dr. Elton, with the tears trickling down his 
furrowed cheek, raised her and conveyed her into 
Edith’s room. The black people, who had gathered 
to receive a parting look from their beloved mis- 
tress, were sobbing aloud. Aunt Cilia sat crouch- 
ing in the corner, rocking her body to and fro, her 
old frame quivering and her lips muttering — “ De 
Lor’ gins and de Lor’ takes away; but dis ole heart 
canDt bress his name, no how.” 

“ Go down stairs, all of you,” said Dr. Elton, 
kindly, after sending Aunt Cilia in the room to 
assist Edith, who, giving way to a momentary par- 
oxysm of grief, aroused herself and with trembling 
hands composed the limbs of her beloved pupil and 
closed the white eyelids. Mr. Ellis watched her, 
and when she drew the sheet over the features of 


2-18 


BEECH BLUFF. 


his child, he said, “Will you give the necessary 
directions?” She nodded her head, and he left the 
apartment. Approaching Mary, who was sitting in 
the easy-chair, and to whom, with her head upon 
his shoulder. Dr. Elton was talking in low, soothing 
tones, he said a few words, and, taking her hand, 
together they went down to the library. 

Aunt Cilia sent for a woman in the neighborhood, 
who came, and Edith selecting a white dress, the 
one worn on New Year’s eve, assisted in robing the 
body, and when it was ready for the coffin she 
gazed long and lovingly on the placid features from 
which after death every trace of the eruption dis- 
appeared. 

Dr. Elton had other patients, and he was obliged 
to return to town, and by him Edith sent to Mr. 
Morgan the news of his niece’s death. Long were 
Mary and her father closeted in the library, and 
when late in the evening she came forth, her face, 
though it bore traces of violent grief, was calm, and 
her manner quiet. In a low voice she begged to 
be permitted to see Matty, and going with her to 
the room of death Edith turned down the sheet and 
disclosed the body of her beloved sister arrayed as 
on the night of Nora’s party. Though in life Matty 
was not even pretty, yet in death she was beautiful. 
Dying early, before the disease had made any rav- 
ages, she was not wasted, but looked like one asleep 
in perfect health. Her short, plump hands were 
crossed over the Crucifix on her full bosom, and as 
a breath of air raised for a moment the purple rib- 
bon that confined her sleeve, and its shadow played 


OVERSHADOWED. 


249 


on her white neck, Mary started as if she believed 
that life was not wholly extinct. The long eye- 
lashes rested on the fair round cheek, and the abun- 
dant hair was wound in one massive braid around 
the noble head. The proud look which she wore 
in life had not wholly vanished, but to Edith it 
seemed like a triumphant expression, as if in the 
upper regions she was exulting in her victory over 
the world. 

“ Poor, dear Matty ! No, not 'poor Matty, for she 
is richer than we 5re now, and papa says that we 
must not grieve for her, she died so happy,” said, 
Mary, as she laid her head on Edith’s bosom and 
sobbed out the grief she could not quiet. 

That night Edith insisted upon sitting up with 
Aunt Cilia and Nelly; but Mr. Ellis would not 
permit her to do so, and sent her and Mary over to 
his chamber while he occupied the easy-chair in her 
room. 

Late in the morning Mr. and Mrs. Morgan ar- 
rived ; they were not accompanied by Nora to whom 
they had not communicated the news of her cousin’s 
death, fearing that it might increase her melancholy. 
Mrs. Morgan supposed that the body of her niece 
would be placed beside that of her mother in the 
family vault at Augusta ; but Mr. Ellis could not 
disregard the request his child had once made — to 
be buried near the little church she loved so well. 
Early the second morning, while the dew still 
sparkled on the flowers, and the birds were sing- 
ing their matin hymns, the procession formed, and 


250 ^ 


BEECH BLUFF. 


slowly under the green arches followed the body of 
Matty Ellis to its last resting-place. 

Though the sycamores still waved as green as 
when Matty played beneath their shade, and the 
sunlight beamed through its branches and danced on 
the dewy turf, yet oh, how dead everything looked ! 
and how dark seemed the spot, when with a sepul- 
chral sound the clods fell upon the coffin I 

The last rites were performed, and all was over, 
and slowly and sadly they turned to retrace their 
steps. With loud shrieks, Mifry threw herself 
frantically on to the grave. The violence of her 
grief alarmed them all, and when she refused to 
rise, refused to be comforted, Mr. Ellis turned a 
look almost of despair on Edith, she bent down and 
whispered in Mary’s ear — 

“You arise, dear Mary, for you are only 
adding to your father’s distress, and remember your 
sister’s love for him.’’ 

Mary yielded, and allowed herself to be raised, 
and with a look of utter hopelessness on her young 
face, drew Edith’s arm around her and suffered her- 
self to be led back into the Church. 




CHAPTER XYI. 

AFTEK THE FUNERAL. 

The Morgans returned home immediately after 
the funeral. Edith retired to her room with Mary 
whose nervous condition was such as to require per- 
fect rest and quiet. Mr. Ellis and Father Ward 
were closeted together in the library until the 
shades of evening gathered around the Bluff, then 
they came forth and Edith heard them pacing with 
almost measured tread up and down the long 
piazza. 

“ I have brought some tea up to young missus,” 
said Aunt Cilia closing the door softly after her, 
“ and you go down, honey, and pour out for 
massa.” 

Mary was asleep, the sleep of exhaustion, and 
Edith went down leaving Aunt Cilia m attendance. 

Mr. Ellis left bis tea almost untasted and went up 
to his child. 

“I trust you have abandoned your design of re- 
turning to the north in the fall,” said Father Ward 
when alone with Edith. 

“ I ought to go before fall,” returned Edith, “ my 
sister writes that mother is far from being strong.” 

“ If you are needed at home I would advise you to 
go by all means, but I should regret any necessity 
that would compel you to leave here at present ; 
there is no one to take your place ; the sad state of 
affairs at Mrs. Morgans renders this diminished 


252 


BEECH BLUFF. 


household particularly desolate, and unless you 
should go home from a sense of duty, it would look 
like desertion. 

“I will make known to you the contents of 
Grade’s next letter and then — ” 

“ We’ll decide,” interrupted Father Ward as Mr. 
Ellis entered the room. 

Edith had placed herself under Father Ward’s 
direction when first she came to the Bluff. She 
had found him wise and kind, and submitted her 
judgment to his in all matters of importance. Her 
heart had been laid bare before him, its innermost 
secrets revealed ; knowing her past so well his de- 
cision would be just and prudent. 

The following week brought a letter from Gracie. 
Her mother was ailing, tho’ not actually sick ; they 
were all looking confidently for Edith’s return in 
the fall, and Mrs. Stanford expressed herself decid- 
edly unwilling that her daughter should remain 
from home another year. 

“Then, you will go,” said Father Ward when he 
came again and Edith read to him that portion of 
her sister’s letter, and a page from her mother, “ but 
you will come back when you can be spared — God 
will arrange it. He knows how much we need you 
at the little Church, how much your loss will be 
felt in the Catechism class, in everything in fact 
connected with His work here, and I feel confident 
that He will not remove you from this place alto- 
gether ; my solicitude is entirely for those you 
leave.” 

“ Yes, it will be sad for Mary to be left so entirely 


AFTER THE FUNERAL. 


253 


to herself. But — ” and Edith’s face brightened at 
the thought “could we not persuade Mr. Ellis 
into letting her go north with me? He has fre- 
quently spoken of going sometime to Canada, and 
yes, I will propose it to him. 

“ There are still two months before you leave; the 
change would be of benefit to the child, and to him^ 
self : we’ll see. 

“ The Fifteenth of August came with its beauti- 
ful feast, and true to his promise to the dying Matty. 
Mr. Ellis, having been received into the Church the 
week before, approached the sacraments with Mary 
and Edith. Thrice, the “ Feast of the Assumption” 
had thus been celebrated by the family at the Bluff. 
With what complacency the mother of God must 
have looked down upon the household that each year, 
furnished another convert to the faith, another 
“first communion” on the loveliest of her own feasts. 
And not one only for beside her “young missus” 
knelt the dusky form of 'Nellie^ whom Edith had 
been instructing from the time of Matty’s death. 


22 


CHAPTBE XYII. 


CONCLUSION. 

The last of August found Edith making prepara- 
tions to return home. Her school-room duties 
ceased with Matty’s death ; for Mary evinced 
such an aversion to her books, which were a con- 
stant remindant of her sister, that Mr. Ellis ordered 
them to be put out of sight, and the music lessons 
only were continued. Edith had maintained her 
cheerfulness, and her pleasant words and sweet 
smiles were, as ever, dispensed on all around, but 
the old light had faded from her eye and the color 
from her cheek. “I cannot spare her,’’ Mr. Ellis 
had said when Edith made her petition for Mary 
“ but I may bring her to you a little later.” 

• It was toward the evening of a warm day, within 
one week of Edith’s departure, that she returned 
with Mary from the Indian mound. They had been 
gathering flowers to spread over the still deeply 
mourned-for Matty, and wearied with her wander- 
ings among the flower-beds, and overcome with the 
sultry heat, Edith threw herself on the sofa in the 
library, while Mary went down to the gate at the 
foot of the lawn to watch for her father, who had 
taken his accustomed Saturday evening ride to 
Chestnnt Grove. The doors were all thrown open to 
admit any air that might bo stirring, and taking ofl:' 
her hat Edith brushed the heavy bands of hair from 
her white temples, and with one hand beneath her 


CONCLUSION. 


255 


cheek, the other carelessly thrown over the back of 
the sofa fell asleep. Mr. Ellis returned by the way 
of the negro-quarter, and resting a moment beneath 
the shade of the sycamore that waved above the 
Indian mound, he proceeded to the house, and, step- 
ping upon the piazza, entered the library. He stop- 
ped short on seeing the sleeping form before him, 
then softly approached the sofa and gazed upon the 
fair face of the sleeper with much the same expres- 
sion as he had regarded the flowers on New Year’s 
night. He drew a parallel. She, then so brilliant, 
so gloriously beautiful, as with burning cheek and 
sparkling eye she stood surrounded by Nora’s 
friends, now so wan, so pale, so spiritless; so like 
those flowers which early in the day had looked 
fresh and lovely, reflecting their blushes in the bou- 
quet of roses, but which he had found in the library 
thrown carelessly aside drooping and faded. Seat- 
ing himself on a low ottoman near the sofa, he drew 
from his pocket a bundle of papers and letters. One 
small black lined letter he balanced in his hand, 
looking, with an anxious, distressed countenance 
upon the pale, sleeping face before him; she seemed 
scarcely to breathe, and he stooped to listen. His 
chestnut curls fell over her face and brushed her 
eyelids; with a quick start she awoke; looking 
around in bewilderment, her cheek which always 
flushed when his eye was upon her became a bright 
vermilion. He slipped the letters back into his 
pocket, and as she attempted to rise took her hand 
and drew her gently down again. With passionate 
earnestness, but almost utter hopelessness he said. 


256 


BEECH BLUFF. 


“ EJjith^ if you would only give your love to me /” 

His soft brown eye, rested on her face, from which 
the blood slowly receded, leaving it pale as before ; 
looking into his face with a startled, wild expression, 
she slowly raised her hand, and placing it upon his 
shoulder, said — 

“ Do you mean it ?” 

“ Mean it, Edith I it has been the cry of my heart 
for months.^' 

■ She bent her head lower, still lower, until her 
breath fanned his cheek, and with that look which 
had once before lighted her face, and filled his heart 
with inexpressible happiness, she said — 

“ And it has been yours for months.” 

For a moment they forgot all else in their sudden 
happiness; at length he raised her face, so quietly 
happy, to his own, beaming with such unutterable 
joy, and said — 

“Speak, Edith.’* 

-“What shall I say ?” 

“Tell me that all this time you have not been 
pining for Frederick ; that it was not the dread of 
his becoming insane that prevented your giving 
yourself to him.” 

“ Who told you that?” 

“ Ilis mother.” 

> 

There was a pause: at length she said— • 

“How you speak to me.” 

“ And what shall I say ?” 

“ Tell me that all this time you have not regarded 
me only as your ivardf she replied, archly. 

“ Did Frederick — ” 


CONCLUSIONS^ 257 

“No, dear, I heard your conversation with him 
the evening before he left the Bluff.” 

“ And did you love me even then ? And was it 
from a fear of betraying your secret that you 
avoided my society?” 

“ I did not wish to foster an unrequited love,” she 
replied, averting her burning face. 

“ And I tormented myself with the belief that 
you had conceived an unconquerable aversion for 
me! And you pined with the thought you were 
nothing to me but a ward! But for this awakening 
we might have been separated forever. I will 
always bless the impulse that impelled me to act.” 

A light step on the piazza notified them of Mary’s 
approach. Edith drew to his side and said Mary will 
rejoi(Je in the knowledge that you are going to re- 
main with us, comfort us, and be yourself happy. 
Come here my daughter!” he said addressing Mary, 
who entered the room and regarded her father and 
Edith with a surprised, inquiring glance. She ap- 
proached, and with his unoccupied arm he drew her 
to the sofa, and said, “ Miss Edith is going home 
next week.” 

“ I know it, papa.” 

“But dear she is coming back, as Matty request- 
ed, to remain with us always.” 

She did indeed rejoice, and her first happy laugh 
since Matty’s death caused Aunt Cilia to shake her 
head, and with a look of apprehension say to 
Nelly— 

“ Crazy ! sure ’s yer born.” 

But “the shadow creeps and creeps, and is forever 


258 


BEECH BLUFF. • 


looking over the shoulder of the sunshine.” At 
length, after making her repeat over and again her 
love for him, and making return assurances of his 
devotion to her, he said in a reluctant voice “But, 
Edith, I have something here that I fear will cast 
a shadow over our happiness” — and handed her the 
letter. She recoiled, and with one bound shrieked, 
frantically — 

“ Mother / Eead it !” 

He tore off the envelope, the black lines of which 
had told the sad news, and, laying her head against 
his shoulder, he held it there while he read the let- 
ter through. 

“Yes, my poor, precious bird, your mother is — ” 

“ she screamed. 

“She died of heart-disease,’’ he answered, the 
tears, which refused to visit her own eyes, gathering 
in his. 

She looked at him with a stony glance. He took 
her hands, which seemed turned to ice, and begged 
with words of love that she would speak to him; 
but her eyes moved not, and not a muscle of her 
rigid face relaxed. He read aloud the letter from 
her sorrow-stricken sister, hoping that its words of 
heart-breaking woe would melt her to tears; but 
she did not seem to hear him, and in a frenzy of 
despair he entreated her, to look up to him, remind- 
ing her that the hour in which she knew that she 
was bereft of a mother had given to her one who 
would be more than father, mother, or any other 
earthly friend. Hour after hour he sat by her side, 
striving by every art and word of endearment to 


CONCLUSION. 


259 


rouse her, but in vain; her faculties seemed sud- 
denly paralyzed by the shock of her mother’s 
death ; and as the night waned, and she evinced 
no sign of returning animation, he became beside 
himself with grief and fear, and was about to dis- 
patch a messenger to town, when Aunt Cilia said — • 

“ Massa Jacob, s’posen yer unbox de portrait ob 
young missus, dat come'dis mornin’, and show it to 
Miss Eden; p’raps it may bring her to.’’ 

Mr. Ellis caught at the suggestion ; and, breaking 
open the box, produced the portrait, so life-like as 
to make even himself start, and, after gazing a mo- 
ment on the beloved Ibieaments of his child, placed 
the picture on the foot of the. sofa, and then, calling 
for more light, he raised Edith so that her gaze 
would fall directly upon it. Holding his breath in 
suspense, he awaited the result, scarcely daring to 
hope that it would be a happy one. 

A sudden, violent spasm passed over her face, 
then her eyes closed, and her whole frame seemed 
convulsed. A moment, and the long pent-up 
tears burst forth, and as Mr.. Ellis bent over her 
trembling with emotion, agitation at the sight of the 
portrait of his daughter mingling with the agoniz- 
ing suspense of the last few moments, she threw her 
arms around his neck, and on his bosom sobbed out 
her hysterical grief. 

At length the force of her grief was spent, and 
after a few soothing words, Mr. Ellis gave her into 
Aunt- Cilia’s charge. 

“Bress her heart! I’ll put her_tobed and talk 
to her ’bout her mudder; dat’ll make her cry, and 


260 


BEECH BLUFF. 


de more she cry now de more she won’t cry arter 
awile.” 

“No, Cilia,” said Mr. Ellis; “you had better keep 
her perfectly quiet.” 

“Humph!” said the old woman, when her mas- 
ter closed the door. “Young massa ’m sleepy, I 
reckon. Who eber hearn tell ob a body bein’ kep’ 
quiet when der inard feelings are all ob a rile like a 
pot ob boilin’ soap? I didn’t, nohow.” 

The next morning there was an utter prostration 
of both mind and body, rendering Edith incapable 
of physical action or mental effort. But the second 
day, when she met Mr. Ellis, she told him that she 
must start immediately for home, and seemed so 
firm in her determination that he did not strive to 
divert her from her purpose. 

“When will you be ready, Edith?” he asked, 
drawing her to him. 

“ To-morrow,” she replied. 

“Can you not wait one day longer, darling?” 

“ O no I Gracy has no one with her but brother 
George, and I must go,” she answered, the tears 
starting afresh at the mention of her sister’s name. 

“ Very well, dearest; we will be ready also.” ' 

“We?” 

“ Yes, my poor bird, Mary and I. Did you think 
I would send you home?” 

She pressed his hand in token of her thanks, and 
a faint smile lit up her face so white and haggard. 
Mary was wild with delight at being allowed, to ac- 
company her father and Edith, and as she assisted 


CONCLUSION. 


261 


in packing the trunks, Edith’s subdued grief could 
scarcely restrain her girlish spirits. 

The next day the carriage bore them to Augusta. 
Mrs. Morgan’s astonishment was infinite when 
they presented themselves before her, and with- 
out bounds when she learned that they were to 
leave that evening for the North. - 

“But, Jacob, wh}^ need you go ? Our merchants 
are going every day, and why not place Miss Edith 
in cliarge of one of them ?” 

“ I do not wish to do so. Miss Edith will return 
with me as — ” 

“ As what ?” 

“ My- wife.” 

“Your wifeV' 

“Myz6u/e./” 

Mrs. Morgan was for a moment staggered ; but 
she saw that the thing was inevitable, and she was 
too politic to raise vain opposition or even to express 
disapprobation. Mr. Ellis had learned her opinion 
of governesses some months before, and he had 
doubtless not forgotten it ; and after a moment of 
reflection, she said — 

“ Well if it is to be, why not at once?” 

“ At once ?” repeated Mr. Ellis, in a tone of in- 
quiry. 

“ Yes, let the ceremony be performed here this 
afternoon.” 

“ Would she consent ?” 

“ If she takes the right view of the matter, she 
will not hesitate ; the expediency of such a course 
cannot be questioned.” 


262 


BEECH BLUFF. 


After a momentary hesitation, Mr. Ellis replied — 
“No, Martha; I cannot suggest marriage to her* 
while she is so crushed beneath the weight of her 
recent great bereavement.’^ 

“ Then when do you expect to return ?” 

“ I cannot determine ; she must decide. I design 
leaving Mary with her while I make a flying visit 
to Canada.” 

Passing over the journey, the sad meeting of 
Edith with her brother and sister, we again find her 
in the retirement of her brother’s farm. Nothing 
about the place has changed since she last crossed 
the threshold. The foliage is becoming tinted with 
the brilliant colors of the northern autumn, which 
it was assuming when she left home a year before. 
Yag still sits on his perch and picks the crumbs 
from his mistress’s hand ; the work table, with its 
basket and books, still stands by the window, and 
the rocking-chair by its side, but the seat is vacant 
and the busy needle is plied no more. Nothing 
changed, nothing altered ! and yet to Edith it seemed 
another spot. “ Home was not home without her 
mother.” She visited the white marble tablets 
above the spring house, and as the shade of the wil- 
low moved slowly over them, she remembered and 
related to Grace how that a year before, when she 
had looked back to catch a last glimpse of her 
friends, and saw her mother standing alone with 
the dark shadow resting over her, she had felt a 
secret, indefinable foreboding of a darker shadow in 
the future. 

Mr. Ellis returned from Canada after a three 


CONCLUSION. 


263 


weeks’ absence; after a long conversation with 
Edith he called Mary to him, and said — 

“ Mary, I am going home in a few days ; will you 
accompany me or remain with Miss Edith until I 
return for her in the spring?” 

After some hesitation, she replied, “ Which do 
you wish me to do, papa ?” 

“ 1 would prefer you to remain here, my daugh- . 
ter, you would find it very lonely at the Bluff, and 
you know that it is not pleasant at your Aunt 
Martha’s, now your cousin sees no society.” 

“But, .papa, won’t you be very lonely without 
me?” 

“I will miss you very much, my daughter, but 
the prospect of meeting my two treasures” — he 
smiled, as he repeated — “my treasures in the spring 
will keep me cheerful.’^ 


Spring came, and one day when Mary and Grace 
had gone forth to seek for the early violets and cro- 
cuses, leaving Edith alone, Mr. Ellis arrived. Oh, 
that was a joyful meeting between him and his be- 
loved Edith ! and with ineffable love he gazed into 
her sparkling eyes and upon her cheek, now tinged 
with the roseate hue of health ! with what a glad 
smile he said. “ Your native air has done much for 
you, my darling. Whenever you suffer from dis- 
ease, I shall know the panacea to restore you to 
health!” 

The meeting between himself and Mary was 
no less joyful, and when after her first great glad- 


264 


BEECH BLUFF. 


ness she returned to the door to pick up her crocu- 
ses and violets, he looked after her with a father’s 
pride, and wondered that he had never before dis- 
covered her exceeding beauty. He looked from 
her to Edith, and back again to Mary ; the caskets, 
he thought, were indeed lovely, but the gems of 
mind and heart which they contained were to him 
more lovely far. 

George had concluded that it Avas not good for 
man to be alone, and when he learned that it was 
Edith’s unalterable purpose to take Grace to Geor- 
gia with her, he expedited matters with a young 
friend of his sisters,’ and two weeks after Mr. Ellis’s 
arrival a double wedding was celebrated at the 
little farm. With feelings of regret, George parted 
with his sistets, but a mischievous smile played 
around Edith’s mouth as she whispered in his ear, 
“Any fears of shabby treatment?” 

In Hew York, where they stopped a few days on 
their way south, Edith met Charles Howard at the 
house of Mr. Acton. His wife’s beauty more than 
equalled her expectations, and, during the evening 
they passed together, she frequently found her eyes 
Avandering to the fair Avaxen face, the loveliness of 
which was half concealed by a Avealth of floating 
ringlets. Mrs. HoAvard Avas tall, much taller than 
Edith, Avith a figure of considerable emhonpoint^ and 
a dashing, imperious way about her that showed 
her to be a petted, spoiled child of fortune. Twenty 
months had wrought a Avonderful change in Charles 
Howard’s appearance! an accumulation of flesh had 
destroyed the intellectual expression of his counte- 


CONCLUSION. 


265 


nance, and rendered his movements heavy and in- 
dolent in the extreme ; his eye had lost its spark- 
ling animated expression, and its somewhat bleared 
appearance aroused a suspicion in Edith’s mind that 
he was no stranger to the wine-cup. He seemed 
totally oblivious of the presence of his wife, and de- 
voted himself to Emily (Mrs. Acton), whom he 
playfully called “ aunt,” and to Grace, whose sud- 
den assumption of dignity when he addressed her 
aroused for a moment the old mirthful look which 
used to play over his face when exceedingly amused. 
But after the first greeting he seemed to avoid 
Edith, scarcely glanced at her, and she turned 
from his altered face to that of her own noble-look- 
ing husband, and thanked the destiny which a year 
and a-half before had led her from his then danger- 
ously fascinating society, and given her a heart all 
nobleness and truth, and which would be faithful 
even unto d*eath. 

We pass over a period of four years, to Edith 
and her husband years of unalloyed happiness — ; 
The home circle at Beech Blufi* was the most lov- 
ino* and united, but two of the links are to be severed 
and on Edith’s brow rests a cloud of sadness. The 
mansion is thrown open, and from the portals go forth 
Mary and Grace, who in the brilliancy of youth 
and beauty have chosen such widely different paths. 
As the bride of George Elton the good old doctor’s 
son Grace will soon be separated from her sister 
by the broad waters of the Atlantic. Eecently ap- 
pointed Consul to Berlin young Elton has hastened 
his wedding, and Mary goes with the bridal pair as 
23 


266 


BEECH BLUFF. 


far as Charleston, there to enter upon her novitiate 
in the Convent of Our Lady of Mercy; as the hum- 
ble Religious^ the servant of God, she thinks she 
will better^'' and with her dying sister’s words 
still ringing in her ear, and her father’s blessing 
on her head, she leaves the home of her childhood 
and consecrates her young heart and life to the 
service of her Divine Lord — ; like that other Mary, 
she has chosen the “better part.” 

Nora’s melancholy was of long continuance, often 
accompanied by partial insanity ; but her parents 
did not lose hope that her mind would be re- 
stored, until -one day a letter from Fred, accidentally 
falling into her hands, revealed to her that he had 
seen Cavelli in Italy, a member of the chain-gang. 
He had'bought an office under government, com- 
mitted a fraud, and been sentenced to the galleys for 
life. From that moment she became a hopeless 
maniac, and, subsequently, when the news of Fred’s 
death reached home, Mrs. Morgan’s reason tottered 
on its throne ; but after months of illness, during 
which she was brought near to the door of death, 
she arose from her couch, a Catholic Christian bow- 
ing to the will of the Almighty. 

Fred died in Florence of the slow Italian fever, 
often so fatal to foreigners, and in the full possession 
of his intellect, blessed God that he should not live 
to be insane. Among his effects was found a small 
box addressed to “ Edith Ellis.” In the presence of 
her husband she opened it, and disclosed a few 
withered flowers, and a frail, delicate chain of the 
golden gum-shell-lac. 


CONCLUSION. 


267 


Years have passed ; but Edith’s eye is still un- 
dimmed, her step as light, and her voice as musical 
as when she first looked out upon the “goodly heri- 
tage of the house of Jacob,” and her cheek has not 
become stranger to the blush which then made it so 
beautiful. But her married life has not been all 
sunshine, for, beside Matty, sleeps a fair babe, 
whose little light went out ere it had flickered a sin- 
gle month. Dear, precious babe ! how the mother’s 
heart yearned for the soft cheek which, for such a 
brief period, was nestled to her breast ! 

It was heart anguish to lay her darling beneath 
the green turf — to feel the emptiness of the arms 
that had cradled the little one so lovingly ; but she 
rendered back the gift to its Maker saying, with the 
Christians meekness “ Thy will be done.” Brightly 
over the memory of the lovely bud, transplanted 
from earth to heaven, beams the light of a sure 
faith, that she shall one day behold it blooming, a 
perfect flower, in the sunlight of Paradise. 



‘ ^ 




« I 


■ 45 , • •-. . 

■f*J* •'.^. 

Ktek* ■'■' ^ • ) . • —1 ^ 

B&- I 'T ‘* ^ *. I. :< *- 


n" j; •• 


v*’^'a>kv.'^ 
:.;;»J’‘V i fT;- .C?.:".' *;>. 




"• . • > • * rl^ 

i- '. , •.'/■ 

■ V • » 


■V 

y 


■**• r 
y * s 




* •• * 

mk 


t , 

• . 

V 


V' ■ .^r^-,<k- ••i- 

• . . . ^ ^ ■ ■ 

, ^ ' . ’■ ’ * 

♦ 1^. y . N ; ; >■ :i V// - ■ r I 

>-’ . r ' '.w. . \. . y 






f •%* 


• . 


1 ^ v' I 


'V 


I? ';;r ./! ^ * •• 

I*:' PBSKsr.v-'-. V -^ - . 


• •. I •• *,-»• ^ w ' • . • • • 

i; ■ .• . - - ' ‘ ^ 

••*• ',._ V».‘^ 

*: 'r'\* V.r' ^1 ' *?■*''* ^ '■ 

^ ' »- * * *“ * 

i ■ 1 r •* • t ♦ •• . - 

V y* s "• ‘ ly 

^ • r. ij* •, > . \ ^ T 


• %■ 




^ • • - • 




•> 


>! 


;'s>.-‘;-. i 


.♦.•vjiV"‘-‘ 

•r • ^ 


(l« I 


*V< V 


• » 


.* « 

^ • 



. Jit 





■ ^ ' f' -I s 






. 




\‘ir 




/ ^ ^ k 


• « 


‘i. ''■’ 

, .W <% 4 -' 


*■) 


4. f 


I »-y 


»• » 







V 




M 
• $ 




/-W- ''^■:. 
' ^ 

r u'ii 






\ • 

f 

• Af * 

ii 


-/• 




' I 




• ^ • 


sm. 



AGNES 


CHAPTER 1. 

BROTHER AND SISTER. 

“ Will you take it, John?’^ 

*‘No!” 

Not for my sake ?” 

“ Grraven images are forbidden in my Scripture.” 

“ The questioner was Agnes Burton, the answerer 
her only brother. The sister was sitting on a low 
stool, her gauzy muslins floating around her like a 
cloud; in their folds nestled her white hands clasp- 
ing a silver crucifix. Her head drooped, and its 
wavy, golden hair gleamed ’neath the bright light 
of the chandelier; the sweet young face wore a sad 
disappointed look as she leaned over and imprinted 
a coaxing kiss on her brother’s hand, lying idly on 
the arm of his chair. 

“ Take it only as a keepsake from me, dear bro- 
ther,” she entreated. 

“Why not a book!” he exclaimed, starting sud- 
denly forward and gazing into her face with a look 
half of anger, half of contempt. “ Something I 


270 


AGIiES. 


can enjoy ! why press upon my acceptance an em- 
blem of the superstition and error I abhor ?” 

“ Oh, John ! is belief in a crucified Lord super- 
stition — error?” 

“JSTot in a crucified, risen, ascended Lord. But 
for the mind and heart to be drawn from the spir- 
itual to the visible — from the worship of the true 
God to the worship of images and pictures ; from 
the truth to the mere form by which it is expressed 
— is idolatry, superstition. I would but counten- 
ance you in embracing a religion I detest, did I ac- 
cept that bauble, your veneration of, alone prompts 
you to present. Give me that little gold heart on 
your chain, Aggy,” and his voice lost its sternness 
while his face relaxed into a sort of smile. “And 
I will wear it as a keepsake from my Papist sister.” 

Agnes sprang to her feet ; quickly she unclasped 
the chain from her own throat and secured it 
around her brother‘s ; tucking it beneath his collar 
she sank on her knees beside his chair and seemed 
in an ecstacy of delight. 

“ And you will always wear it, John ? never 
part with it — the heart I mean — even though you 
should be in direst need ?” 

“ A gift never to be parted with,” he returned in 
a mock solemn tone. 

She threw her arms about his neck, kissing his 
cheek and brow, and for the remaining hours be- 
fore his departure flitted about him like a bird. 
The tears were ever coming, but she dashed them 
away and a jubilant expression settled over her face, 
not unnoticed by her brother’s searching jealous 
eye. 


I 


BKOTnER AND SISTER. 


271 


“^go7> we are divided against ourselves — we 
cannot stand. We are no longer all in all to each 
other — ^you are falling away from me — a barrier 
has come between us, and you seem even to be glad 
I’m off — I see it in your eye.’’ 

“I was thinking at that moment of the little 
keepsake, John, and was so glad I had something 
you would accept,” she answered, meekly. 

“ I would take anything, Agnes, but one of your 
religious gew gaws, But there goes my trunk — I 
must follow.” 

“ Oh, John, my brother!” It was Or wailing, des- 
pairing sort of cry that went out from the pale lips, 
and she crouched down as one stricken by a sud- 
den blow. 


“ Agnes, my only sister, listen to me; listen to 
your brother’s parting words. You know I leave 
you only to go into danger, and I seek but your best 
interest. We may not meet again, certainly, not if 
we both live, until you recall me by a rejection of 
all this absurdity. If my life is not spared, then 
remember my parting words. Seek Christ aright, 
in His written word, rest upon Ilis finished work, 
and trust alone to His prevailing intercession. You 
have resigned yourself to a strange influence ; you 
are running after strange Gods, but I leave you in 
God’s hands, He will bring you out of the fearful 
depths into which you have fallen. As He is my 
witness, I would rather have followed you to your 
grave, and left you resting beside our father, than 
to have found you so wedded to your idols. Whoa 
you bid me, I will come again.” 

One convulsive embrace and he was gone. 


\ 


CHAPTEE II. 

SEPARATED. 

** Agnes! Agnes! will you wake up?” ex- 
claimed a sturdy little voice the next morning; 
vigorous young hands pulled at the bed-clothes, and 
then moist, rosy lips were pressed on the tear- 
stained cheek of the young convert. The golden 
hair was brushed back in a tangled mass, and the 
heavy eyes opened languidly as she turned her face 
toward the little three-your old cousin, and drew 
his baby cheek down to her own. She was so 
weary — weary in mind and body — weary of the 
struggle that had gone on so long — so many yester 
days, and to be continued, perhaps, innumerable to- 
morrows. Coaxed, scolded, threatened, controverted 
by turns, until there came moments when to* “ give 
up” seemed the only alternative to end the contest ; 
moments when concession seemed almost wruncr 
from her; then a single aspiration, a clasp of the 
crucifix around her neck and she was strong again. 
Mere human resolution would have yielded ; a su- 
pernatural strength seemed to sustain her, and she 
knew that God was with her — that His own right 
hand was bearing her up. 

But now John was gone; his visit had left her 
prostrated physically and mentally, and when the 
baby voice aroused her from the heavy sleep she 
had fallen into after a night of weeping, she turned 
wearily on her pillow. Eecalling what had passed 


SEPARATED. 


273 


the preceding evening, that her brother was indeed 
gone from her, she hid her face with a moan. Then 
the thought of what this bitter struggle would be to 
her in the end, raised her for a moment above her 
heart’s trouble — but for a moment only ; the ach- 
ing void was still there, and could not yet be filled 
even by the love of Heaven. 

Little Willie tugged at the bed-clothes, and called 
to her in his impatient, childish way to “get up.” 
He was her pet, and she often dressed him when he 
came to her in the early morning bringing his 
clothes. This particular morning the little man 
was boisterous, vociferous in his demands to be 
dressed. Agnes was nervous, and her heart ached ; 
but she performed the office of nurse, and buttoned 
and tied, and brushed until the little toilette was 
completed. During its performance the restless 
subject clamored loudly for a story. Agnes had her- 
self spoiled him, and so she must continue the in- 
dulgence. The story was told in a weak, trembling 
voice, to be sure, but she managed to satisfy her 
audience and control herself. 

“ Where’s your Heart, Cousin Agnes?” suddenly 
exclaimed the child. 

“Oh, the gold Heart? Yes; I had forgotten. I 
gave it to brother John, my pet.” 

“ He was naughty to take it; it’s too pretty for 
him,” and the rosy face put on a frown. 

Agnes’ own face brightened ; she had unlimited 
faith in the virtue of the relic and the tiny mira- 
culous medal enclosed in the heart-shaped case. 
She smiled at the remembrance of her brother’s 


AGNES. 


274 

asking so innocently for the very “gew-gaw” he 
professed to despise. 

“ Who knows what it may lead to,” she mur- 
mured; “oh, how hard I must pray!” 

One whole year she had waited for her brother’s 
consent to her receiving Catholic Baptism, and yet 
was that consent or sanction withheld. He had 
said, “ wait till I come,” and she had waited. His 
coming had ended her season of probation, and 
now that he was gone with the knowledge that she 
had paid every consideration due him as a brother 
— though the matter presented itself to her mind as 
one resting only between herself and her Maker — - 
she was free to act. That very day she made her 
renunciation of the faith in which she had been 
reared. Agnes was but eighteen; an orphan, but 
loved — and spoiled — had that been possible — by the 
uncle of whose family- she formed a member. Hot 
as a dependent, for an ample provision was made 
for her support by her only brother. An army of- 
ficer, he was ever on the wing; it was only at 
long intervals and in brief visits he saw the sister 
in whom his very soul seemed wrapped. Children 
of a Lutheran clergyman, it would seem that they 
were both removed as far from Catholicity as the 
east from the west. Member of a strict Lutheran 
family, how was it possible for Catholic doctrines to 
be presented to Agnes’ mind? 

“ Agnes a Catholic I Impossible,’* exclaimed 
Captain Burton, on reading her first letter convey- 
ing the intelligence of her contemplated change. 
He repulsed the thought, and immediately wrote 


SEPARATED. 


275 


treating the matter as a joke, begging her not to 
repeat it. It pained him, he said, to know that the 
subject of Eomish error should have ever found a 
place in her thoughts. It was an insult to the 
memory of their father whose life and labors had 
been given to the Lutheran ministry. And besides 
it might start a train of ideas, disturbing to his 
sister’s peace of mind. One never knows what may 
be the end of such notions. “ Write, rather, that 
you comtemplate matrimony; that your long cher- 
ished dream — and mine — of your presiding at your 
brother’s board, when he returns to private bachelor 
life, is abandoned, and I will relinquish all thought 
of my home being made bright by your sunny pre- 
sence — even I may come to kneel at your wedding 
benediction.” 

The answer came, admitting of no question in 
his mind of his sister’s serious determination to em- 
brace the Faith they had both been brought up to 
despise. She wrote as follows: 

“Yes, dear brother, you have written me a wel- 
come, though a disappointing letter, and you desire 
a speedy reply. Welcome, inasmuch as it conveys 
to me the assurance of your continued health and 
safety, and in the many endearing expressions with 
which its pages abound; confirming rny full con- 
fidence in the steadfastness of your affection. Dis- 
appointing, as regards the subject now nearest my 
heart, and which you are pleased to treat as a jest. 
Since our dear father’s death — one year, the coming 
spring — I have given the subject of religion my 
closest attention. During that most rebellious sor- 


276 


AGNES. 


row, I one day was returning from our father’s 
grave — a grave in which a dead past seemed 
buried — and wandered into a Catholic churchyard, 
the gate of which stood invitingly open. The sun 
was almost setting; I sat down in the slanting sha- 
dow of a large- cross and listened to the swelling 
tones of an organ. A sudden impulse prompted 
me to enter the church. The altar was one blaze 
of light, and the sweetest hymn I had ever listened 
to was being sung by the choir. 

“ What is this service ?” I asked of a young girl 
kneeling near the entrance. 

“ The Benediction of the Blessed Sacrament,” she 
whispered. 

The music ceased ; the silvery sound of a bell fell 
upon my ear ; then the most solemn silence pre- 
vailed. Involuntarily I knelt ; never had I felt so 
near to God ; for a moment I seemed to be visited 
by that peace I believed depended on God’s will, 
and which I had so begged Him to bestow. I did 
not pray, I hardly thought; I simply seemed to 
cling to the cross ; to place myself in our Lord’s 
presence. It was not faith, it was no religious act, 
not even intended as devotion. But calm came to 
me — unspeakable comfort — light dawned on my 
sinful repining, and from that hour I loved the 
very atmosphere of that Sacred Temple. What 
seemed to me, in my complete absorption, the sud- 
den rustling of angel’s wings, brought me back to’ 
earth ; it was but the simultaneous rising of the 
congregation, and I too arose. How I yearned to 
approach the side altar, bathed in violet light, and 


SEPARATED. 


277 


implore the intercession of that Blessed Mother — 
the woman who so well knows our unrest — our 
needs — has felt them all ! How I longed for that 
blessed belief teaching that those who procede us 
to the better land, are still with us, still love us, and 
aid us in our prayers before the Throne. But more 
than all — beyond all price of consolation in be- 
reavement — the belief that our petitions here below 
ascend as incense before the Sovereign Judge, and 
incline him to mercy, to pardon for the precious 
ones whom we mourn. What earthly treasure 
would I not have, at that moment, bartered to be 
able to kneel in truth and say, “ Lord, I believe.” 
I returned home, comforted, almost resigned. I 
knew but little of the tenets of the Catholic 
Church, but I saw the loving side of the faith — 
nothing cold, abstract, but something near my beat- 
ing, struggling heart, something which brought it 
consolation, sweet and tender. From that day my 
heart was Catholic, though for many months my 
stubborn head remained Lutheran. Need I say that 
I longed to know more of a Church that had the 
power to give even to one outside the pale such a 
delicious moment of peace. I visited the Catholic 
book-stores and sought for authors who would en- 
lighten me. I read for months without informing 
Uncle Henry of the character of my studies. Aunt 
noticed a change and imputed it to the natural 
wearing away of grief from a youthful heart. Uncle 
was pleased to think my natural strength of mind 
was asserting itself. The result of my investiga- 
tions was an entire and full belief in all the truths 
24 


278 


AGNES. 


of the Church as revealed by Almighty God. Then 
it was, dear brother, that I wrote to you ; I had 
made them here at home acquainted with the mat- 
ter, and, as I expected, met with a steady opposi- 
tion. They think my mind is unsound, I believe. 
The Pastor of the church beneath whose cross I 
rested, and whom I had sought, advised no step 
until I should hear from my brother. And now 
that you know all, will you still treat my desire to 
enter the Church as jest, or send me a loving con- 
sent? You have ever consulted my happiness, and 
believe me, dear John, this is indispensable to it.” 
***** 

No I The brother was inflexible ; consent to error 
he could not grant. A request, almost a command, 
to wait one year until she should have seen him, 
and then — though he would never sanction her 
adoption of the Romish creed — she would be at 
liberty to do so, if she remained of the same mind, 
which he questioned, however. He thought the 
sentiment of her nature had alone been touched by 
those features which, in his phraseology, appealed 
only to the senses. Music, lights, pictures, flowers, 
were baits thrown out to attract the sentimen- 
tal. He tried reasoning, arguing, and when he 
found that she could send him an answer to every 
objection, that he could not combat her arguments 
or weaken her faith, he changed the tone of his let- 
ters : he “ detested controversy,” and advised her to 
turn elsewhere for a theological, conquest, not waste 
her sophistry on him. She did not remind him 
that she was simply making her defence, to which 


SEPARATED. 


279 

his attacks challenged her. His letters became 
marvels of tenderness ; he knew that the thought 
of giving him such pain, the knowledge of his real 
sorrow, would be the strongest argument he could 
now bring to bear, and his letters were full of 
grief, and yet she could remain inflexible. 

The year passed, and we have seen the result of 
his visit. 

Days, weeks, months went by, and an occasional 
brief, cold letter was all the communication the 
brother vouchsafed to send — no allusion to the 
cause of difference — and Agnes wrote the same lov- 
ing, sprightly letters as of old, as though no differ- 
ence existed. She did not measure the length of 
her communications by his, but reported fully every- 
thing of interest. She wrote with the freshness of 
youthful spirits, with the kindliness of a true, warm- 
heart, and with all the charming playfulness of a 
brain devoid of evil fancies. Her letters were as 
sunbeams on his dull camp life; or, when after a 
brush with the Indians, and hair-breadth escapes, 
away off on the frontier, he found twa^ more 
awaiting him on his return to the Fort, he settled 
down with pipe in his mouth and read with intense 
satisfaction the cheerful, refreshing pages, and ac- 
cepted them as a delightful proof that his sister’s 
heart was not being weaned away from him by all 
that religious frippery and nonsense. She had been 
all in all to him since Death had knocked so 
sharply at the door of their father’s parsonage. 
And it was hard to think such a mighty barrier 
should come between them. At first he felt as 


280 


AGNES. 


widely separated from her as though the broadest 
ocean rolled between. His visit had been a failure, 
a mortifying failure, as well as a disappointment. 
Divested of all the usual joy of their meeting; 
shorn of every pleasure, and marred by his own un- 
yielding prejudice, and her steady resistance, it off- 
ered nothing pleasant for him to look back upon. 
Her letters were precious to him, but he could not 
allow her, for a moment, to think that he regarded 
either her or them with the slightest favor. “ And 
then she’ll come round,” he argued, “for its mighty 
hard to feel that you’ve driven off your only one in 
the wide world — even if Heaven is at the bottom of 
it all — and I believe Aggy is sincere in thinking 
so — but she isn’t one to stand the alienation long ; 
she’ll hold out a little longer, and then she’ll give 
in. I felt badly about that crucifix,” he soliloquised, 
“ but I couldn’t give in when she wouldn’t ; I 
couldn’t be less firm than she ; and I’ve had a de- 
gree more of self-respect since I stuck to that No/ 
though it did almost stick in my throat, and seemed 
to have a plurality of o’s in it the size of a barrel 
hoop.” 

He clasped his hands above his head, stretched 
himself, studied for a few moments, then knocked 
the ashes out of his pipe. 

“After all, I don’t know why those Catholics 
should have the monopoly of the Cross. It’s the 
emblem of the redemption of sinners, and God 
knows I’m the chiefest among them. But here’s 
my little Heart — talismanic I’m sure.” 

He drew it forth and viewed it on all sides for 


SEPARATED. 281 

the hundredth time since it had been in his posses- 
sion, and for the hundredth time repeated ; 

“ I wonder why Aggy was so cheerful all of a 
sudden when I asked for this hijoul Something 
Jesuitical about it, I’ll be bound.” 


CHAPTER III. 


IN FAITH. 

*‘By George! Captain, youVehad a pretty smart 
brusli this time, from all accounts,” exclaimed a 
senior officer — one who had been on the sick-list — 
entering the Captain’s tent. 

“ Yes, those Indian hounds came within an ace 
of scalping your most Obedient; I’m not quite sure 
they didn’t,” he laughed carelessly and rubbed his 
head. 

“You’re all right, my man, thank God! But 
they do say your escape was miraculous. I believe 
the soldiers are getting up a superstition about you. 
But, seriously, Burton, accept my congratulations j 
your bravery is the miracle that’s won us more than 
one victory.” 

That night John wrote to Agnes, and relaxed 
somewhat from the severity of his late style. He 
even mentioned the superstition of the soldiers, and 
asked playfully if the little gold heart possessed any 
virtue unknown to him ; all it owned in his eyes be- 
ing the constant remindant of his darling sister.” 

This was the most affectionate letter, and brother- 
ly, he had written since they parted. 

What tears of thanksgiving she shed over it, for 
she felt almost that he had been restored to her. 
Her life was one long prayer of patience ; for pa- 
tience is a prayer when one waits and hopes, and 
the object of that waiting and hoping is still as far 


IN FAITH. 


283 


in the dim distance, and only seen with the eye of 
Faith. Thus Agnes had waited for the first indica- 
tion of her brother’s relenting. Often when almost 
overcome with the weariness of the long waiting, 
she had seemed to hear the Master’s voice — “ Come 
np in faith to me that ye may gain new strength 
for the conflict, — ^your life is indeed a warfare, but 
remember the prize set before you ; hold out cour- 
ageously to the end, and seek not for rest below ; 
here only can it be found — among the children of 
God. When friends fail and hearts grow cold — 
when those who once loved, love no lunger — when 
the dearest and tenderest ties are riven, and you are 
lonely and weary, remember that I too was forsaken 
by those whom I loved, and that I bore my own 
cross on my way to Calvary. I have entered into 
my glory and you too shall enter into the mansion 
of your Lord and go no more out forever.” These 
words dwelt in her memory, and she commenced a 
new waiting, believing that her brother would yet 
drink of her pleasure, and in the end, his voice would 
help to swell the general chorus of thanksgiving 
and adoration. She had never seemed to love her 
brother so much as when she pressed this last letter 
to her heart. She had so longed to ask him about 
the little keepsake — if he wore it, which however 
she could not doubt since he had promised — but if 
he wore it about his neck as she had clasped it — 
and not in his pocket in his old, careless way. But 
she had refrained from the mention of it, and waited 
for him to say the first word of the— to her— price- 
less Heart. 


284 : 


AGNES. 


His letter was so short, but then it was all tender- 
ness though he did not mean that it should be so. 
Somehow the vision of his sister in her cloud of 
fleecy muslin ’neath the light of the chandelier; her 
wavy golden hair, and her white hands clasping the 
silver crucifix, often came before him in that far off 
wilderness. It had become so photographed on his 
brain that in the very tumult of forest warfare it 
appeared, and he seemed to hear her voice repeating 
the words — “ Oh John I is belief in a crucified Lord, 
superstition?” 

About this time occurred a treaty with tbe In- 
dians — the treaty of Ghent, perhaps, and Captain 
Burton remained but a few months longer in the 
West, and moving from place to place as the inter- 
est of the service called him. He had been advanced 
to the rank of Captain by his success in skirmishes 
with the red men ; now, after his last exploit, a most 
gallant defence of his post, he received a commission 
conferring on him the rank of brevet-Major. All 
this was glorious news to the sister whose pride in 
her brave brother was only excelled by her love 
and anxiety for his soul’s best interest. It was 
gratifying to know that his comrades and his 
country had by his skill and bravery been inspired 
with confidence in his abilities as an officer. But 
then there were other, dearer tidings that she hoped 
one day to hear ; this hope held the first place in 
her heart; deeper than her pride in his gallant dar- 
ing, or even her joy in his safety. It was the hope 
of having him one day kneel in the presence of 
Jesus in the tabernacle and profess his belief in the 


IN FAITH. 


285 


one true Faith. To this end, all her prayers and 
communions tended ; she never thought of his meet- 
ing death, even though in dangers so great, but as 
a Catholic Christian. This prayer of faith, ever 
rising, could not but prevail. 


CH APTEK I Y. 


SUMMONED. 

The war in Florida was now at its first stage, and 
Captain, now Major Burton, was ordered to that 
country. Here the army was exposed to every 
danger almost without the power of defence ; 
strangely did the Indians conduct the warfare on 
their part. Peril and difficulty attended every 
movement. Knowing well what he would have to 
face. Major Burton felt a yearning once more to 
behold his sister’s face. His pride and obstinacy 
had at length succumbed to the sweet spirit of her 
letters, though she had not yet bid him come by an 
avowed return to Lutheran doctrines. 

It was a bright December morning, early in the 
month, and early in the morning, too, for two heads 
were asleep on one pillow.’ One curly brown, the 
other wavy gold. Little Willie had been very ill, 
and Agnes had taken him under her especial 
charge. He was now two years and more older 
then when he called her with his quaint little voice 
“to get up,” that memorable morning after the 
parting, when she thought the world almost a wil- 
derness without her brother’s love. 

DonH get up yet, cousin Agnes,” begged the 
weak voice, as she stirred and aroused him from 
bis slumbers. “ Tell me something about Christ- 
mas; its the Good-man’s birth-day, isn’t it?” 

“ Who said so pet?” asked Agnes, leaning over 


SUMMONED. 


287 

on her elbows and kisssing the wan cheek o^ the 
invalid. 

“ Sister Maggie ; will I have any birthdays when 
I go to heaven?” 

“ Heaven will be one long, happy birthday,” re- 
plied Agnes; birth-days being the paradise of 
Willie's thoughts. 

“Only one! Then Washington didn’t go to hea- 
ven, did he ?” 

“ Why not ?” his cousin asked, bewildered by 
what she feared were wanderings. 

“Because he has lots of birth-days — don’t you 
know ?” 

Agnes explained. The two faces were close to- 
gether, and Washington, and Christmas and birth- 
days were being settled properly in Willie’s under- 
standing when the door opened and admitted his 
mother. 

“ What have I?” Her hand was in her pocket. 

“ My breakfast,” said the child. 

“Oh, John! John!” exclaimed Agnes, bounding 
to the floor. 

“ You stupids! Could I bring either John or th 
breakfast in my pocket?” 

“ Not John himself, but .a letter — I know it is.” 

Yes, it was a letter, and Willie and birth-days 
were forgotten. 

“ To Florida !” she almost gasped, “ oh aunt, he 
is ordered to those horrid swamps.” 

“ Bead on, my child, he may come home first.” 

And she did read on : then with a cry of joy 
dropped her head into her hands, the tears trickled 


288 


AGNES. 


through her fingers and her whole frame shook 
with emotion. 

“ What is it ?” Do for pity’s sake tell,” exclaimed 
Willie’s mother in a tone of consternation. 

“ What’s the matter, cousin Agnes?’’ asked 
Willie, whose great wondering eyes were staring 
from the bed-clothes, and ready to fill from sympa- 
thy, though he wasn’t quite clear as to what he was 
to cry for, not for cousin John, certainly, who had 
carried off the pretty Heart; but Agnes, whom he 
loved, was weeping, and so he too must shed some 
tears. 

“ He’s coming to spend Christmas with us, the 
first Christmas since father's death,” said Agnes, 
with tre’mbling voice, dropping her hands and 
looking up through tears of joy. 

It was even so. His application to pursue his 
journey to the “ swamps” by way of his old home, 
had met with a favorable response ; even now he 
must be on his way. 

Willie did not like this advent of Agnes’ brother 
who always made her cry, when he went and when 
he came again ; but Agnes made him understand 
that she liked it, and so the little fellow tried to be 
agreeable, though his young brain was obviously 
confused on the matter of the tears, if she liked his 
coming so much. 

Happy Agnes! It had been, in spite of the hap- 
piness conferred by her religion, a bitter trouble to 
be at odds with her only brother, even though she 
had right on her side. John was right; Aggy, of 
herself, could not have stood it; but she had been 


SUMMONED. 


289 


the recipient of a special grace by which she had 
thriven. Never looking back to that happy, care- 
less life, when her father’s, brother’s love made up 
its sunshine, she went bravely on into the valley of 
years before her, comforted, sustained, by that rod 
and staff whose support would never fail so long as 
she clung to them. The father and brother were 
ever in her thoughts. The one with the most lov- 
ing, though at times, mournful memory. The other 
with an abiding affection, united to an ardent hope, 
whose light, time and distance could not dim. But the 
old life she never dwelt upon ; the present was her’s 
to care for, and the future to look to. 

The glad tidings of a speedy reunion with her 
brother, not only made her supremely happy, but 
furnished much food for thought and speculation. 
Could it be that he received with more favor her 
change? That he had given the subject his atten- 
tion, and was coming with a mind no longer pre- 
judiced, though perhaps himself no nearer the 
Church ! Or was it the force of his natural affec- 
tion overcoming pride, resentment, detestation of an 
opposed faith, and bringing him contrary to his 
resolution to her side? She hoped for the best, and 
was happy beyond all expression. Willie was frac- 
tious and exacting ; no hand but cousin Agnes’ could 
minister to his wants acceptably, and she gave her- 
self up to him though she longed to be before the 
tabernacle offering her thanksgiving. Every morn- 
in o' found her stealing from Willie’s side for the 
first Mass; frequently approaching the Sacraments, 
and bending low before the Blessed Lady’s altar, 
16 


290 


AGNES. 


.With what faith and love she implored the inter- 
cession of the Mother who “knew her needs.” 
The day in Willie’s room was but a silent continua- 
tion of the morning's supplications. 


CHAPTER y. 


“John’s friend.” 

“ Man proposes — God disposes.” Even in life’s 
trivialities how perpetually in this adage re- verified. 
The brother’s'design of a meeting with his sister 
before entering upon his new career was not to be 
carried out precisely as he had formed it. It was 
the week before Christmas. John was daily ex- 
pected. In the light of the same chandelier, ’neath 
which Agnes had sat so sadly more than two years 
before, she and Willie — now quite recovered — were 
engaged in a romp. Her bright intelligent eyes 
were full of vigor and life, and her laugh was such 
as only comes from a heart free from sorrow or 
guile. On the same chair wherein her brother had 
sat so stifly and refused the Cross, but accepted con- 
descendingly the Heart, was lying her work — a 
smoking cap — his Christmas gift — to be. The room 
looked quite the same as when he held her hands 
and implored her, by the memory of their father, 
to come back to the old faith and to him. 

“There Willie, that will do! I must go to my 
work, or cousin John will have to smoke without a 
cap.’’ 

“There’s the bell; somebody’s come, and you 
can’t sew, and I’m glad,” laughed the child. 

Agnes listened. It was only a neighbor leaving 
her uncle’s letters, which he often brought from the 
office as an accommodation. 


292 


AGNES. 


A letter for you, Miss Agnes,’’ said the servant. 

“A letter! Not from John, certainly, for be 
ought to be here soon,” said Willie’s mother. 

The handwriting was strange, and for a moment 
a terror seized Agnes’ heart; but she opened it and 
glanced first at the signature. The name was 
strange too. Then she read that John had been 
overtaken by a sudden illness, and was lying at the 
writer’s home, about two days journey from his 
sister. He was not dangerously ill, but she must 
come to him, as the detention would necessitate a 
direct route to Florida, immediately on his recovery, 
and he could not abandon the idea of seeing Agnes. 
Then followed her itinerary, and the writer’s name 
— Col. J. Crossland. 

“ I’ll go, of course I” 

‘‘ And not come back for Christmas ?” vociferated 
Willie, more than ever set against John. 

“We wanted you to share a particular joy with 

us on Christmas,” said the Doctor — her uncle 

“but John has the first claim, and so we must say 
God speed. I would go with you if 1 could leave 
my practice; however you will be remembered in 
our Christmas prayers.’' 

“If they were only Catholic prayers, uncle?” 

A look passed between her uncle and his wife 

were they smiling in derision ? In the excitement 
of preparation and then of the journey, the look 
was forgotten, to be remembered when she received 
their Christmas greeting. 

All the land was bathed in twilight — a winters’ 
twilight so pleasant beside an open grate when 


“ John’s friend.” 293 

the glowing coals throw a flood of light over the 
room — mellow, golden light; and one can build 
castle in the coals and air, such as in the common- 
place glare of daylight or gas light would never be 
dreamed of. 

The twilight was deepening when Agnes arrived 
at the home of her brother’s friend. In the mellow- 
ness of the fire light she found the two — brother 
and friend — the former reclining on a couch drawn 
up before the grate, and the friend sunk in the 
depths of a large easj-chair. 

“ Miss Burton I” 

“ Agnes 

“John!” was the simultaneous exclamation that 
burst from the three. Agnes was on her knees be- 
side her brother’s couch ; on his face was a mysti- 
fied look of amazement. 

“I did not expect you until to-morrow,” said the 
Colonel, with embarrassment. 

“You expect my sister! — to-morrow!” Then 
Agnes’ face too assumed a helpless expression of 
wondering surprise. 

“ The letter, John 1 I got the letter and started 
that night.” 

“Letter!” John had become an echo. 

“Oh, hang it! excuse me. Miss Burton, but it’s 
all wrong — I mean it’s all right ! bless me, if I know 
what I do mean ; but let me make a confession. 
Your brother did not know of my writing. I had 
intended telling him all to-night, and have a wel- 
come prepared for you to-morrow ; but you’ve anti- 
cipated me. Let me explain, That unreasonable, 


204 


AGN'ES. 


precipitous human lying there — whom you can see 
is not fit to stir from the house — determined to start 
to-morrow in order to spend Christmas with his sis- 
ter ; to travel over a rough road when he staggers 
across the room ; to knock himself up completely — 
that^s what he wanted — so as not to have to face the 
Florida arrows. I had too much respect for his 
uniform — I couldn’t permit it, and so I sent for you 
to come and thereby save his life and honor.” 

She saw it all ; the goodness of this brother-officer 
who was now trying to cover up his almost womanly 
consideration. It was such a grateful look that 
beamed from Agnes’ eyes upon her brother’s friend. 

“Oh, don’t be too grateful ! There’s a good bit 
of selfishness mixed up in all this apparent hospi- 
tality.” 

“ Selfishness!” again echoed John; I wish all the 
world were as selfish, Colonel; how can I ever thank 
you?” 

“By holding your tongue;” replied his friend, 
bluntly; “keep quiet and don’t agitate yourself; I 
repeat selfishness is at the bottom of it. Miss Bur- 
ton (your brother hasn’t had the manners to intro- 
duce us), I have been steeped in envy ;” (he was 
giving John time to recover from his surprise), “I 
haven’t a mother, sister, or single feminine tia in 
the known world ; that man has aggravated me be- 
yond endurance with the reading of delightful, 
womanly letters, and recounting daily all your sis- 
terly doings. He exasperated me, and so I worried 
him into inviting me to join him in making the fly- 


“John's FRIEND.” 295' 

ing visit to the sister he was always parading before 
me.” 

“ I considered it the greatest honor, Colonel — ” 

“Don’t interrupt me, Major. The invitation was 
not sincere ; you feigned sickness to keep me from 
knowing her, and so I took the matter out of your 
hands — but here’s father, he hasn’t a sister either.” 

“ Not this side of heaven, Jerome,” interrupted an 
old gentleman, advancing into the room; “but I’ve 
two there, I believe,” he extended his hand frankly 
to Agnes. “ And so you are the little Papist the 
Major is so proud of; why havn’t you brought him 
to your way of thinking ?” 

“ He’ll come, sir, in God’s own good time,” she 
replied, with a side glance at her brother. 

“ So he will, my child, so he will; we’ll have him 
yet.” 

“We 1 are you a Catholic ? And you ?” turning 
to the Colonel. 

“Very bad ones; but that’s no fault of the 
Church,” he answered. 

“ Speak for yourself, if you please, my son ; 

I don’t consider myself a bad one, though I 
fall far short of being good,” pleasantly returned 
the old gentleman. 

■“^Why, John, you never told me — ” 

‘'^That I had a superstitious, idolatrous Popish 
friend ? Not I ; I couldn’t encourage you, you know 
answered her brother, falling into his friend’s 
humor; “but it’s my misfortune — so don’t blame 
me, Aggy, or maybe we’ll get into a broil.” 

“You will do us the kindness to make yourself 


296 


AGNES. 


quite at home, Miss Burton ; the Major is convales- 
cing — but he wont be out for some days.” 

“ IIow much we owe you !” said Agnes, in a voice 
trembling and husky. 

“Kotbing at all, I assure you ; I shall be rejoiced 
to be able to say in future that somehochjs sister 
came and made this forlorn, bachelor wilderness to 
blossom as the rose. Behold I how everything has 
brightened already; I believe you, John, sisters 
are a God*send.” He left the room as he spoke, 
and the brother and sister were alone. 

“That was so like him, Aggy — the writing of 
that letter. It was he who obtained my promotion, 
though he professes to know nothing about it. I 
could not enumerate his many acts of kindness.” 
The Major’s hand was resting on his sister’s shoul- 
der, and she thought it trembled. “ It will all be 
known one day, Aggy — all his goodness, and what 
a bright record he will have. 

“ I am so thankful, John, you have such a friend ; 
my mind will be more at ease regarding your wel- 
fare. But why did you not mention him in your 
letters? You have written of Captain this one and 
General that one, but never a word of Colonel 
Crossland.” 

“ Perversity, Agnes ; he had one fault in my ej^es, 
and I couldn’t bring myself to speak of him ; Catho- 
lic, you know.” 

“ Oh, John ! yet so prejudiced?’’ 

“We won’t discuss it, Aggy ! But I think here’s 
the housekeeper to carry you off.” 

An elderly woman closed the door and stirred the 


John’s friend; 


297 


fire, then said she was ready to show the young 
woman her room. It was a neat, though rather 
dingy chamber that she entered, a room that looked 
somehow out of use ; a fresh, bright fire was in the 
grate, and threw a ruddy glow over the old-fash- 
ioned furniture. 

“It Was Mrs. Crossland’s room,” said the house- 
keeper, “and has scarcely been used since she died, 
years ago, when the Colonel was but a boy. We 
have no lady visitors to fix up for, the Colonel 
always away and the old gentleman traveling 
about, to keep near the Colonel, sometimes I think.” 

The woman’s volubility evidenced a scarcity of 
“lady visitor.” She was kind, offering any assis- 
tance to Agnes, whose simple toilet, however, re- 
quired none. Tea was served in the room in which 
John was lying. By request, Agnes presided ; she 
felt strangely at home pouring out tea at this 
Catholic board, but she liked it, though there was 
none of the elegance of her uncle’s mansion; but the 
very atmosphere seemed to breathe of her religion. 

“ I ought to have known you were Catholics,” 
said Agnes, laughing, “you have Catholic faces.” 

“ And what’s the character of mine ?” called 
John from his couch. 

“Rankly heretical,” promptly replied the Col- 
onel ; “ you’re the image of Luther.” 

“You’re taking advantage of my situation: wait 
till I’m up. 

“ Oh !” with an assumed looked of astonishment, 
“then you’re not complimented; wasn’t the Re- 
former said to be handsome ?” 


298 


AGNES. 


“ Aggy ’ll tell you ; she has a painting of him — 
or had — and there ivas a time when she vow’d she’d 
never marry till she found a man to look like 
Luther.” 

“John! John! that vras years ago,” rejoined 
Agnes; but the laugh was against her and she was 
forced to join in. 

It wanted but four days to Christmas. Major 
Burton was still weak, and though he professed to 
be “ up,” yet had to lie down at intervals. Agnes 
had so much to hear and to tell ; but the subject of 
religion was not intruded, except in a playful way 
when they were all together. She would like to 
have it all talked over if it could only be brought 
about in a serious way; the time was now so short 
— the very day after Christmas they must start — 
John and his friend, and then the opportunity would 
be gone. She decided to consult the Colonel’s 
father. 

“Wait, my child (waiting seemed her vocation), 
wait till Sunday, then we’ll see. We can invite 
him to Mass, that will break the ice.” 

“Your head is much wiser than mine, I see,” 
she replied, in her pleasant way, and obeyed the 
old gentleman’s request to sing his favorite — she 
both sang and played well. 


4 


CHAPTER YI 


A CHRISTMAS JOY. 

The Colonel seemed to have innumerable Christ- 
mas purchases to make, and Agnes’ opinion was 
wanted so often that she found herself hurried off 
at a moment’s notice to this shop or that. The se- 
lection of gifts for people of whose tastes she knew 
nothing was puzzling; but the drollery with which 
her companion described his friends and their par- 
ticular needs was excessively amusing. John’s 
friend was certainly making use of John’s sister, 
and, considering the time remaining to them, she 
thought the friend a little — just a little — unreasona- 
ble. 

Saturday came.'^’The Major seemed restless, ner- 
vous, and Agnes thought him either not so well, or 
troubled at the near prospect of their parting. He 
protested that he was even better, and announced his 
intention of spending an hour that evening with a 
friend, a few rods off. 

Evening came, and John went. The Colonel ap- 
peared jubilant over something he did not see fit to 
impart to his “feminine guest,” as he denominated 
Agnes. They were on the best of terms — these two 
— and seemed quite like old friends. Sitting to- 
gether in the same mellow fire-light, they talked of 
John. He told her of her brother’s bravery, dash- 
ing exploits, generosity, and many acts of self- 
denial, all of which had served to gain for him the 


300 AGNES. 

love and admiration of his brother officers, and of 
the regiment. 

“ What a Catholic he would make ! By the way, 
Miss Burton, the little keepsake he wears — the gold 
Heart — is a Keliquary?” 

It is.” 

‘‘I am indebted to it for the most valued friend- 
ship of my life.” 

“ How so ?” 

“ I will tell you. I had been in command of the 
fort but a few days, and knew your brother but 
slightly, when early one morning, at the very en- 
trance of my tent, I picked up that little Heart. 
Its full, round form struck me as unusual, and hop- 
ing to discover something that would indicate the 
owner I pushed the spring, as of a watch ; it opened 
and discovered to me the medal and relic. Curious 
to know the Catholic who owned it, and who must 
be deploring its loss, I advertised it as found. Your 
brother presented himself. I was surprised and 
gratified. He explained that it was a parting gift 
of his only sister, “ of no other value but as a token 
of her love,” he added. 

“ If it be not an impertinence, may I ask your 
religion ?” 

“ Lutheran,” said he. 

I was puzzled. “ And your sister’s,” I' ventured 
to ask. He hesitated, then replied, while his face 
flushed, “ A convert to Koine.” 

“Indeed! my own Church,” I answered. I un- 
derstood the whole story ; it needed not to be told. 
From that day I sought him ; we became friends. 




A CHRISTMAS JOY. 


301 


and, strange to say, our conversation invariably 
turned upon religion. That little Heart was per- 
forming its mission well. It had led him to my 
quarters, and I felt that I too had a mission to per- 
form, It told its own story of the sister’s faith, and 
love ; and wben he related to me the history of that 
last evening — told of the rejected crucifix, and your 
inconsistency in so cheerfully substituting that little 
“ bauble” — I knew the secret of that cheerfulness, 
and my prayers have never ceased for both you and 
him. 

He was very serious now. but with a strange, 
bright light in his eyes. Agnes’ tears were flowing 
fast. 

“ Do you see any evidence that he will become a 
Catholic ?” 

“Ido.” 

At that moment the door opened, and John en- 
tered. His friend sprang up and took his hand, but 
both were silent. Crossing over to his sister, he 
asked — and his nervousness seemed all gone : 

“ Will you take me to Mass with you to-morrow, 
Aggy ?” 

“ Will you go?” she asked doubtfully. 

“Yes, and ‘I’ll be good,’ too, as the children 
say.” 

“ I don’t think it’s safe for you to venture inside 
a Catholic church with that face — so like Luther, 
you know,” observed the Colonel. 

“ I’m weak yet,” returned John, implying a want 
of strength to properly resent the insult — either to 
himself or Luther — the Colonel declared he couldn’t 

make out which. 

26 


302 


AGXES. 


“You wou’t be lucid, Major, so we remain in the 
dark. Good uight — good night. Miss Barton ; don’t 
let him come the Reformation over you — I see he 
meditates, it,” with which warning his pleasant face 
disappeared. 

“ Isn’t it odd that John should propose going to 
Mass to day?” Agnes asked of the Colonel, the fol- 
lowing morning, while the two were waiting for the 
other’s appearance at breakfast. 

“Wouldn’t he be an ungrateful savage to-deny 
you that pleasure, when you travelled even by night 
to see him ? I won’t accord him any merit.” 

“ But he couldn’t deny what I didn’t ask. I mean 
that I think it odd the proposal should come from 
himself.” 

“Not under the circumstances^ Miss Agnes,” said 
the Colonel’s father; and so nobody thought it odd 
but her. 

During Mass the brother and sister were separated 
— the Crossland pew being full. Agnes was dis- 
tracted by the joy of her brother’s presence; the 
sweet, solemn music, rich in harmony and fine in 
the quality of the voices that mingled in it, seemed 
to be heard as through a dream. It seemed to her 
another First Benediction — and the “ angel’s wings” 
made the same “ rushing” sound as the congrega- 
tion rose at the last Gospel. The Colonel touched 
her on the shoulder, and whispered, “ Come with 
me.” She followed him to the Sacristy ; there were 
Mr. Crossland and John in conversation with a 
priest; the face was familiar — the truth flashed 
across her mind — she had passed his very face on 


A CHRISTMAS JOY. 303 

the threshold one of the times when the Colonel hud 
hurried her out to shop. 

“John, can it be?” 

“Yes, Agnes, my long waiting, patient sister, 
your prayers have been heard ; I am here to profess 
my belief in the truths of the Holy Catholic Church 
— revealed by Him who can neither deceive nor be 
deceived — here to be baptised in the one true faith, 
and to go forth a Catholic Christian.” 

“ What a Christmas Gift ! Her brother’s soul — a 
treasure above all price — to be one day laid up 
where treasures abide — enduring as eternity. 

And this was not all. Yet another joy awaited 
the thrice blessed Agnes. Christmas morning, with 
its triple communion of , brother, sister, friend, 
brought glad tidings of the most unexpected nature 
— tidings conveyed in a note of Christmas greeting 
from the uncle. What a memorable day this was 
ever to be I 

“ Agnes, my dear niece, when you return, it will 
be to a Catholic home I Christmas Eve will witness 
our reception into the Church; into the one fold ! I 
send you this Christmas greeting — the most joyful 
my life has ever offered ; and your aunt begs to pre- 
sent, with her fondest wishes, your little god-child 
Willie!” 

Was there any joy like unto her joy? Was 
richer reward ever conferred on patience and long 
waiting ? 

Would our readers like to know the sequel? 

John returned from the Florida war covered with 
glory. Soon after, Agnes married : but her hus- 


304 


AGNES. 


band did not look like Luther. He bore a striking 
resemblance to her brother's friend^ who had resolved 
that first night he beheld her kneeling beside her 
brother’s couch in the mellow twilight — that his 
wife should look like Agnes, 


“AFTER MANY DAYS.” 


CHAPTER I. 

BREAD UPON THE WATERS. 

It was not without much fatigue and after all the 
clocks in the neighborhood had struck ten that Mr. 
Coleman Collins arrived at the door of his majestic 
mansion in Somerville Square. It had been a fatigu- 
ing day — that national holiday, the twenty-second 
of February, eighteen hundred and many years ago. 
What with the dinner, to which he had done ample 
justice; the toasts, to which he had responded in 
more ways than one, the cheering to the utmost ex- 
tent of his lungs, and the chorusing of the young 
Poet Laureate’s new song to the “ Immortal Wash- 
ington” (in the enthusiasm of which chorusing the 
adjective often suffered from a superabundance of 
“ r 5” and total want of a “ ^”), the gentleman in 
question was sufficiently exhausted to greet the 
sight of his own door with a long-drawn sigh of re- 
lief and the unmistakable nod of recognition; far 
too much exhausted to observe the ragged urchin 
darting across the street and halting neath the light 
of the corner lamp, by the glimmering of which he 


806 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


u 

eagerly souglit out something from pockets which 
seemed to be in impossible places beneath the tatters 
covering his shivering body. 

“ Hallo, sir ! I reckon you made a mistake when 
you paid for your paper this morning, and this gold 
dollar belongs to you.’’ 

Turning slowly and surely, thanks to the friendly 
aid of the railing. Mr. Coleman Collins blinked at 
the small piece of ragged humanity now on the 
steps below him, then looked up and down the 
street, not quite clear as to what or whom the 
“ Hallo, sir!” applied. 

“ I say, sir, you gave me this gold dollar instead 
of a penn3^” 

“Fetch it up here and let me see. Y-e-s, the 
very one Amy gave me this morning for the four 
silver quarters,” muttered the rightful owner of the 
bit of gold, surveying the boy, who had descended 
again to the pavement and was pirouetting in the 
lamp’s light. He slowly put his hand in his 
pocket. 

“ Who’d expect such honesty from a ragamuffin 
like that? How did you know I lived here, and 
what made you think this belonged to me?” 

“Didn’t know you lived here, sir; only saw you 
go up the steps as I was passing.” 

“But how did you know this dollar was mine?” 

“ I knew you’d be honest, and didn’t look at your 
money. But all the rest I examined, and when I 
came to count up and saw the gold shining through 
the copper, I just knew it was yours.” 

“ And you were right, my man ; it is my dollar. 


BREAD UPON THE WATERS. 307 

But I suppose you’d have kept it if you had not 
chanced upon me to-night?” 

“ I counted on seeing you at the Post-office in the 
morning.’’ 

“ So? Well, you’ll never lose by being honest. 
I don’t say ‘ honesty is the best policy ;’ that’s an 
old saw, fit only for politicians. He who is honest 
only from policy is a thief at heart. There, take 
your money and be off; you’ll sleep well with such 
a conscience; you’ve only one, only one; a great 
many people have two at least.” 

A pigeon-wing, accompanied by a whistled thrill, 
was the only response. The pigeon- wing ended on 
the pavement, but the not unmusical trilling could 
be heard after the boy had betaken himself off with 
his rags and his pennies and the dead-latch had ad- 
mitted the possessor of the gold dollar to the warmth 
and comfort of his hap)py home. 

It had been the morning of that same twenty- 
second that Mr. Coleman Collins, while standing on 
the Post-office steps, had i:esponded to the appeal 
of the little newsboy who besought him to diminish 
by one his remaining stock of papers. 

“ The old story, I suppose,” Mr. Coleman had 
said, “a widowed mother and half a dozen nurs- 
lings.” 

“ Ho, sir,” replied the boy promptly, but with a 
touch of sadness in his voice, “ I’ve no one but my- 
self.” 

“ Then you ought to make a living.” 

“ So I will, sir, with God’s help.” 

‘‘Well put in, my lad; that’s the kind of help 


308 


AFTEE MANY DAYS. 


u 

we all need. I reckon you don’t forget your mother ; 
that ‘ help of God’ sounds like a mother’s prayer.” 

The boy hung his head for a moment, then 
looked up with moist eyes. 

“Couldn’t forget her, sir; she’s only been dead a 
year come Easter.’^ 

“Ah! Easter. Yes; something connected with 
eggs and religion,” and handing over the pennies, 
for which he received a paper in return, the gentle- 
man walked away, saying, in an undertone, “ eggs 
and religion. Um! I take both very rare.” He 
smiled at his own witticism, looked after the boy 
plying his vocation among the passing crowd, and 
cherished the incident as something to relate. 


CHAPTER IL 


AMY. 

Six months later and our little newsboy, Walter 
Herbert by name, found himself established in a 
more extensive business in the newspaper line. 
By the generosity of his post-office friend he was 
now the owner of a stand — modest though it was — 
and his patrons were increasing daily. He had 
confided to his “dollar” acquaintance bis little his- 
tory; how he had come from a neighboring town 
after his mother’s death, expecting to find in strange 
thoroughfares what there was no prospect of his 
meeting with in his native place — a fortune. Wal- 
ter was but twelve — a tender age unless hardened 
by contact with the poverty side of the world and 
close intimacy with want — the experience of our^ 
little friend from early childhood. Bereavement 
made him acquainted with grief, and friendless, and 
his young heart, in its first outburst of sorrow over 
the lifeless remains of the mother who had strug- 
gled with disease and destitution until nature could 
no longer bear the burden, and death removed it; 
the young heart, bereft of the only object it had 
ever known to love, yearned for the same freedom 
from earth's miseries that the good God had vouch- 
safed his long-suffering, but ever-loving, parent. 
Why did the sun shine on, when such a pall had 
come to mingle with the clouds that had ever over- 


310 


AFTER MANY DAYS.’ 


shadowed his young life ? Why did the flowers 
blossom and all the external world seem so bright, 
when he he had no one to cling to, no one to love, 
nothing to nourish but the pale flower-bud of memo- 
ry ? But he soon learned that “ the world does not 
stand still because one heart has ceased to beat and 
another longs to be at rest forever,” and so, “ with 
the help of G-od” — the help that had carried the 
mother through her weary life and gave her the 
fairest hope of eternal rest — he would press forward. 
His young mind pictured something better in the 
future; something he had heard of, dreamed of, but 
had never seen in his wretched surroundings. The 
“something” assumed a definite shape: it was a 
place among the first and best in the land. What 
others had done could not he? That place should 
be his, “ with God’s help.” He would not make 
tragedy of his life like all the miserable wretches 
around him, dragging out their existence in squal- 
idness ; he would weave its threads and determine 
the character of the web, and not leave circumstan- 
ces to determine it for him. And so he made his 
way to the great city, and having a definite aim, 
was working definitely for it, when bechanced upon 
Mr. Coleman Collins. Walter’s mother had been 
sunk in the depths of poverty through the dishonesty 
of her husband’s business friends, and often had her 
poor lips breathed the tale to her child. 

“Walter, he honest. Some poor soul suffers from 
every dishonest act, and never let such suffering as 
we have endured be laid at your door. You will 
soon be alone in the world; but, my darling boy, 


AMY. 


811 


God will be your friend. Be honest, and, with 
God’s help, you will surely prosper.” 

The boy resolved to make honesty the guiding, 
principle of his life : to possess his soul in patience 
and endure whatever might betide, but never prove 
false to his dying mother’s earnest injunction. 

It was Easter Sunday, just when the bells were 
ringing joyously, proclaiming the ever-blessed 
tidings — “ Christ is risen” — that with her expiring 
breath Walter’s mother committed him to the care 
of her risen Lord. Thereafter Easter was to him a 
sacred season. In all the vicissitudes of his career 
when beset and often overcome by temptations, the 
Easter bells never failed to recall him, and he 
obeyed as a voice from heaven. It was a powerful 
temptation to deviate from the right — that gold 
dollar — but he had told the gentleman that very 
morning of his mother’s death a year ago “come 
Easier^ The first Easter, the anniversary of her 
death, the bells would have no music in their tones 
for him if he made no effort to find the owner 
of the alluring golden tempter, and so he thrust it 
out of sight and waited for the morning to restore 
the coin. 

Walter did not find Mr. Collins himself the least 
frequent of his patrons, and often there came with 
him a little lady who called him papa. A rosy 
cheeked, merry-eyed, richly-dressed little damsel 
whom he, in his turn, called Amy. Between Amy 
and Walter (whose tatters had disappeared) there 
sprang up a friendship, very condescending on her 
part and equally respectful on his. It was charac- 


312 “ AFTER MANY DAYS.” 

terized by many of the features of older friend- 
ships which sometimes exist between those of dif- 
ferent stations in life. Her child’s paper was called 
for with a haughty toss of the curly head, the 
haughtiness toned down, however, by the sweetness 
of the voice and smile with which she thanked 
him, and the pretty way she dropped the money in 
his hand. It was she who always asked so many 
questions, and he who gave the replies which some- 
times excited her to mirthful laughter, and again 
produced the shadow of a frown which said, “Stop, 
you go too far !” 

But it was the happiest event of his day, this 
coming of his good friend and his little daughter; 
and when, the following autumn, they departed for 
Europe, half the freshness of earth seemed to go 
with them, and at the newsboy’s stand the brightest 
sunbeam was thereafter wanting. 

“ I will hunt through Europe and bring you the 
prettiest picture to be found,” she had said when 
she bought her last paper.” 

“ That will be yourself,” he had ventured to reply, 
but was immediately extinguished by the retort: 

“ I said I would hunt. Could I hunt for myself V' 
And the haughty shadow chased away the pretty 
patronizing smile, and settled round the lovely 
mouth, whose pouting lips said quite unmistakably, 
“ You’ve gone much too far.” 

“ What an extinguisher you are, Amy,” said her 
fother, laughing. “Are you going to put down all 
your beaux as you do poor Walter?” 

“Little girls don’t have beaux, papa, and when I 


AMY. ^ 813 

am a yonng lady I sha’n’t go to a newsboy’s stand 
to find a beau.” 

“ Hoity, toity ! perhaps we’ll find a prince for 
you over the water.” 

“ Perhaps, papa,” replied the little maiden, com- 
placently. 


27 


CHAPTER III. 


WALTER. 

Years sped on. Walter Herbert had been the 
recipient of the richest favors of that Providence 
whose kindness, extended to all, is especially visi- 
ted upon those who merit it by industry and 
perseverance. The poor boy has become the rich 
capitalist: from the weary daily plodding of his 
newspaper- selling life he had risen step by step on 
the ladder of fortune until he stands upon its highest 
round. He looks back at the time when he was 
toiling at its base, and with a great throb of grati- 
tude his heart yearns to find the benefactor who es- 
tablished the little news merchant and strengthened 
the impulse of ambition in the soul of the friendless 
child. But the eve of that trans- Atlantic voyage 
was their last meeting. In vain had he made in- 
quiries; the only information he gleaned was that 
some three years after his departure, Mr. Collins had 
returned from Europe, having been' recalled by 
sudden reverses. He came alone with the little Amy, 
leaving his wife buried in a foreign land. His star 
continued to decline, and he soon disappeared from 
the scene of his former prosperity. In the far 
West he hoped to retrive his ruined fortunes, and 
and had gone, but no one knew the positive locality. 
This much, and no more, could Walter learn; but 
he would never abandon the hope of finding them 
if they were still living. Having fought bravely. 


WALTRR. 


815 

anslirinking and undismayed the battles of life, 
and attained to wealth and distinction, he can re- 
tire from active service ; but he cannot forget the 
hand that, finding him in the lowest ranks had put 
him on the line of promotion. Unfettered by busi- 
ness or family ties, Walter determined to make the 
tour of the West. Many months he traveled, but 
with no satisfactory' result. ISTo trace could he find 
of Mr. Collins or the pretty Amy. Grateful remem- 
brance of the good deed done burned deeper and 
deeper as time rolled on, and the image of the little 
maiden — the sunbeam of his first “ business” year 
— never faded from his mind or heart. Walter was 
now twenty-eight; handsome, clever and wealthy, 
he was much courted, and looked upon as a most 
eligible parti. But all women were alike to him ; 
in his mind there was one ideal, and none came up 
to the standard. The object of innumerable deli- 
cate attentions, he returned them generously in the 
way of bouquets, opera boxes, etc., but no look or 
word escaped him that could be construed into an 
expression of the tender passion by any of the 
pretty butterflies that flitted around him. Some- 
times he reasoned with himself: Was it not absurd, 
after so many long years, to even hope to find two 
beings who might be dead — the one dead and the 
other possibly married ? But he was living, why 
not they? He was single, why not she? He 
would try Europe; he might at least find the grave 
of the little maiden’s mother. Another period of 
years and he had '‘done” Europe thoroughly. One 
bright morning in March brought his wandering 


816 “ AFTER MANY DAYS.*’ 

feet upon his native shore. There was no end to 
the welcomes extended to the man of wealth, and 
he must submit to being lionized. He had entered 
the arena of the upper-tendom, and there was no 
escape ; he must yield himself up to be buzzed and 
butterflied and droned and tortured like every other 
lion with a golden mane. A few weeks after his 
arrival he was standing on the very corner where 
in childhood he had cried the morning and evening 
papers; the very corner, too, where he stood the 
happy possessor of the enviable “stand.” The 
very corner where he had basked in the light of the 
sunbeam that for a moment daily glistened on his 
path, and vanished with the child’s paper that lay 
in waiting. He was thinking of the promise of 
the little beauty to bring him the prettiest picture 
Europe could produce, and well he remembered his 
reply and what it brought upon him — that little 
vial of retributive wrath. 

“Ah! could I but hold their hands and look into 
their eyes with the freedom of kith and kin, and 
share with them the fortune which I owe to him, I 
would be truly happy. With the help of God I’ll 
find them yet, unless He has taken them to a better 
life.” 

At that moment a sudden darkness, produced by 
a heavy cloud, banished all sunlight and threatened 
a coming storm. Turning hastily he entered the 
door of an umbrella shop, for he was unprepared 
for the change of weather, and was in the act of 
purchasing the necessary protection from the rain, 
which was already falling, when his attention was 


WALTER. 817 

arrested by the voice of a gentleman behind the 
desk. 

“Miss Murry knows that it is against the rules of 
the establishment to permit silk work to go out 
without security.” 

“But, sir, I cannot give the necessary security 
to-day, and having been so long in your employ 
Miss Murry considered my past honesty a sufficient 
security for the present work.” 

That’s not the thing. I do not impeach your 
honesty, but it would be a bad precedent to estab- 
lish. Others of equal claims with yourself could 
demand a like privilege, and we be made thereby 
heavy losers. Excuse me, but I must order a re- 
turn of the covers.” 

“ Oh, sir ! remember my poor father. This work 
is our only depend ance.” 

The voice was low and musical, but with such a 
ring of sadness in it, such a pleading, entreating 
tone, that Walter turned and surveyed the speaker. 
Despite the heavy wrappings there was an elegance 
and grace in the figure that harmonized with the 
music of the voice. The face was concealed by the 
folds of a black veil, and otherwise he could not 
have seen it, for the head was drooping and turned 
completely from him. The person at the desk 
leaned forward and said something in a low voice — 
too low for Walter to catch the words. 

“ No, sir !” was the decided and could it be indig- 
nant answer. 

“ Then you must return the goods.” 

She turned away without a word of reply, but 


818 “ AFTER MANY DAYS.” 

witli an air proud and stately as a queen, Walter 
advanced, raised his hat, and, with a brief word of 
apology, said : 

“ I have been a listener to your conversation. I 
was once the recipient of a favor : will you allow 
me to return it to you ?” 

“Sir! I cannot bear insult.” 

With a quick motion of the hand she threw 
aside her veil, and the beauty of the high-bred face 
was that of an ideal picture. 

“ Pardon me ; I do not presume to renew the 
request to be of service.” 

The veil was again dropped. Without the sem- 
blance of hesitation she opened the door and went 
forth into the deluge of waters. Quickly Walter 
Herbert completed the purchase and left the store. 
In the distance he saw the black figure swiftly 
gliding and almost ran to reach its side. 

“I insist upon your accepting this umbrella. It 
will give you some slight protection from this 
cruel storm.” 

He forced it into her hand, and without another 
word turned quickly and retraced his steps. En- 
tering the shop, at a glance he perceived that the 
gentleman was absent from the desk. Approaching 
the lad who had waited upon him he asked : 

“ Will you tell me where the lady lives who just 
left here ?” 

“Up town,” was the short reply. 

“ I would like to know precisely where as I have 
loaned her my umbrella and must send for it.” 

“Oh 1 I believe she lives in B. street.” 


WALTER. 


819 


“Ilave the goodness to inquire; I will wait.” 

“Yes, sir,” was the reply brought back; “she 
lives in B. street.” 

. “ Her name, if you please.” 

“ Co-Co-Coleman, I believe. Sue,” calling to a 
young girl passing out, “what’s the Dutchess’ name ? 
They call her the Dutchess up stairs,” he added in 
a lower tone, “ because she takes no notice of no- 
body.” 

“ Collins, Miss Collins,” returned the girl at the 
door. 

Hud a thunderbolt fallen at his feet Walter could 
not have been more astonished. Could it be possi- 
ble that those for whom he had searched so long he 
had stumbled upon at last, or was it simply another 
of the same name whom he had seen? 

“I’ll know before I sleep,” he said to himself; 
then to the lad, “Give me the number and street 
again.” 

“Back of 225 B. street.” 

Calling a cab, Walter drove to the street named 
— a narrow court, nothing more. Leaving the cab, 
with instructions to the driver, to wait, he walked 
up slowly, examining the half legible numbers 
above the doors. 

“223—4. Ah! here it is. Twenty-five; yes, 
yes, in this little passage-way. Wretched place!” 

He was before the very door, and yet his hand 
refused to knock. For a moment he leaned back 
against the opposite wall, but an arm’s length from 
the poor-looking abode, and surveyed the exterior 
of what he hoped would prove to be his old friend’s 


“ AFTER MANY DAYS.” 


S20 

home — miserable though it must be, yet still he 
would be rejoiced to find them there, still more re- 
joiced to take them hence. At length he summoned 
courage to rap lightly with his cane. The door was 
opened immediately, and an old man stood before 
him. Walter had expected to see the lady, and 
knew that his appearance would explain itself. She 
Avould believe he had come for his property. It 
did not occur to him that she might put another con- 
struction upon his following her up so closely; 
that a gentleman of his appearance would not be 
likely to entertain such solicitude about an um- 
brella as to pursue it in narrow courts through a 
driving rain. ‘‘I’ll come to the point at once,” 
thought he, scanning the unrecognizable face of the 
old man. 

“I am in search of a gentleman of the name of 
Collins — Mr. Coleman Collins.” 

“ That is my name sir; will you walk in ?” 

Walter was seized with a trembling as in an ague. 
Dropping into the offered chair, he wiped from his 
brow the perspiration which had suddenly gathered 
there. Never had he been so completely mastered 
by a situation. How could he make himself remem- 
bered by the old gentleman, who he now thought, 
had in all probability forgotten long since the news- 
boy whom his generosity had aided. 

“ I scarcely know how to introduce myself. I 
cannot without going back into years long gone — 
too long, perhaps, for you to remember, Mr. Collins, 
the little newsboy you established on the corner of 
Second and B. streets.” 


WALTER. 


821 

“It was my privilege to establish several ; their 
names have passed from my memory — all but one, 
which has since become so favorably known to the 
great world that it could not be forgotten.” 

Walter leaned forward expectingly, “ May I ask 
the name ?” 

“ Walter Herbert.” 

“I am that same Walter Herbert, who never for 
one hour has ceased to remember your kindness.” 
He grasped the old gentleman’s hand, the tears — 
true, manly tears of gratitude — poured from his 
eyes. Then followed explanations from each. 
When a door opened and admitted the lovely 
face that had been revealed but for a moment in 
the umbrella shop Walter and his old friend 
were still grasping hands and exchanging expe- 
riences, one of adversity and the other of successl'ul 
progress during all his business career. 

“ This is my daughter Amy, the little lady who 
took her daily walk to your stand.” 

The room was carpetless, and bare of almost 
every comfort, but in Walter’s estimation no place 
had ever been so ornamented. Amy’s beauty ful- 
filled the promise of childhood, though her cheek 
was pale and a settled expression of care and anxiety 
was visible in her countenance. 

“The Duchess,” truly, thought Walter, as she 
stood before him, resting one hand lovingly, and 
with something of protection in its curve, on her 
father’s shoulder. 

“ I have heard your story so often,” said she, 
“ father loves to go back to that honest act — and 


AFTER MANY DAYS.’ 


322 

says it is like the gleam of the gold dollar among 
the dingy copper coins. He has suffered so much 
from the fraudulency of the world, that I almost 
think he would question human integrity altogether 
were it not for that little incident, engraven indeli- 
bly on his memory,” she stroked the grey hairs of 
the old man, and smiled down upon him, while he 
raised his eyes to her face, and shook his head 
gravely. 

“ It is true I have been, in a measure, the victim 
of stratagem, and deceit, but my own heedlessness 
and rashness have been the true cause of my down- 
fall. 

“Oh, father! you reproach yourself so need- 
lessly,” said Amy, passing her arm about his neck. 

“No, no, my daughter, I have not unrighteously 
come to the pass I am in; I am justly here. You, 
poor child, are the injured one! 

We find in Proverbs that ‘‘the 'prosperity of fools 
shall destroy themj and again, ‘ lie that cover eth his 
sins shall not prosper' I am an exemplification of 
the wise man’s sayings,” said Mr. Collins. “It was 
my prosperity that destroyed me. I did not as- 
cribe it to the hand of Providence, but had a proud 
and stubborn spirit, and a severe visitation has come 
upon me. I thought I could do without God, but 
now I find, and believe with Euripides who ‘pre- 
served reason and religion in the midst of heathen 
darkness,’ that he who has God for his friend has 
the fairest hope of prosperity. I thought I could 
indulge in secret a natural appetite for strong drink. 
I confidently believed that I could abandon the use 


WALTER. 


823 

of it at any time I might discover it was likely to 
gain the mastery ; but I learned too late my pre- 
sumption in depending entirely upon the strength 
of my own human will. 

Eeligion I knew but little of, save the prayers re- 
peated nightly at my mother’s knee — and which I 
remembered only as something belonging to child- 
hood — Churches, I thought very good for those 
who needed a Sunday resort, but for myself there 
were other places more attractive. Sermons I 
could’nt suffer, and bad music was intolerable; be- 
yond these what was there to go to Church for? 
It was respectable, to be sure, to be seen in a pew — 
but my respectability was established and I needed 
no such trumpet to proclaim it. Thus I went on 
for years, wrapped in my own high-mightiness^ in- 
sensible to the goodness of Him who had raised me 
up, and whose hand by one stroke could bring me 
low in the dust. But the lesson came at last.” 

Amy moved away and busied herself about some 
household matters. It was a dreamy sort of way in 
which her father was talking, a way he had of go- 
ing over his past life; and she knew that having a 
listener — and a most attentive one, tho’ it pained 
Walter to listen to these self-reproaches, he would 
talk on till his story was told. And so he did ; the 
sad tale of his wife’s death, financial disasters, resi- 
dence among foreigners involving him in distress 
was poured into Walter’s ear. Calamities succeeded 
rapidly, producing misery and despair, and when 
he found himself once more at home — home only 
as far as nativity went — it was to find himself also 


324 “ AFTEK MANY DAYS.” 

a beggar. The hard, long- years of struggling 
against the tide that had so relentlessly set in 
against him, and to which at last having, by reason 
of sickness, to yield he had been brought to the 
wretchedness in which Walter found him. 

“ And yet,” he added “ these misfortunes have not 
been altogether unprolific of good. Although I am 
reaping the bitter harvest years of heedless extravi- 
gance garnered up, yet have I found in want and 
sorrow — what I doubt not would have been lost to 
me, had my life continued prosperous — I have 
found my God! I recognise His hand in all things 
and I am learning to say ‘ Thy will be done.’ He 
gave me a great blessing in my Amy — and by his 
goodness I keep it — without her I should have been 
a pauper indeed ! Sometimes I am led to think 
that her pure, good life has preserved us from 
further evil. In her early girlhood she begged for 
Baptism — but she must receive it at the hands of 
an old Priest whom she had seen in the court among 
the poor. I granted her wish — it was all one to me 
who administered the sacrament ; I had it then so 
little in my power to gratify any of her girlish long- 
ing, for we were depending upon my day’s labor in 
a Western City, that I was pleased to be able to say 
‘ yes’ to the child’s request — and through her, though 
long after, I myself was brought to ask for the 
same blessing. In our religion we are happy. It 
is the poor man’s sunshine.” 

Amy came over to her father, with a bright smile 
— “ yes, we are happy for all — ” glancing around 
the room, “ the saints days, and Church festivals are 


WALTEE. 


325 


the events in our two lives, that relieve them of 
that depressing gloom poverty brings with it — to 
papa at least — I was so young when he lost his for- 
tune that I remember little about the luxury he can- 
not forget.” 

“ A luxury, I hope to see you enjoying again — ” 
said Walter rising — for he remembered the Cab 
and driver he had left out in the storm. 


28 


CHAPTER lY. 


“ IT SHALL KETURN 

In the course of a fortnight the little tenement 

back of two-twenty-five B street was vacated, 

and its former occupants established in a neat home 
in the suberbs of the city. 

The beautiful picture, the child — Amy had pro- 
mised in h»r grand way to the poor news merchant, 
should yet be his — and the very one too he had 
ventured to suggest. But it should come with the 
love he craved, and not be bestowed in mere grati- 
tude — and so he would win it by degrees, and when 
the heart was in the gift then would he claim it for 
the adornment of his now bachelor home. 

Walter’s insensibility to the attractions of society 
occasioned not a little astonishment, and many com- 
ments in the world that courted him; a thousand 
vague rumors of an attachment abroad floated 
around, now and then reaching his own ears, and 
he could but smile as he thought, “abroad indeed ; 
foreign certainly to all the frippery and nonsense 
of this fashion life.” 

What a relief to shake the city dust from his feet, 
and stand in the pure atmosphere of Mr. Collin’s al- 
most country home, and be greeted with the words 
and smiles of truest, sincerest friendship — a friend- 
ship based on mutual gratitude. 

Amy ever welcomed him with cordial frankness, 


IT SHALL HETURN; 


(( 


827 


and extended her hand without reserve. Independent 
of her beauty — her rare superiority of mind and 
character which gradually unfolded itself to Walter’s 
understanding, would have won his admiration, and 
esteem — only a nature like his own could fully ap- 
preciate her, and Walter’s was such. Narrowed as 
her life had been she had met only those of coarser 
mould, from contact with whom she naturally 
shrunk — and so her father, her work, and her re- 
ligion, had been her only intimate companions. 

But she could not escape attention by reason of 
her lovely face — and in the umbrella factory from 
which she had for a long time obtained work, she 
was persecuted by the addresses of a junior mem- 
ber of the firm. He had sought her out in her own 
poor home, but her proud, cold, manner had served 
to repell him for a time. He at length renewed 
his offer of marriage, which she declined with a de- 
cision,- so unmistakable that he did not venture to 
repeat it. But it brought upon her untold embar- 
rassments — and she was made to feel the vindictive- 
ness of a nature corrupt and gross. To her father 
she had not revealed the state of affairs out of regard 
for his peace of mind, and the evening Walter pre- 
sented himself at this humble dwelling Arny had 
been weeping in silence and secrecy over the cruel 
withdrawal of the work. Her funds had run low, 
the rent was due, and a thousand pressing wants 
crowded before her — wants that must be supplied, 
or she must witness her father’s suffering for the 
commonest, comforts of his already too comfortless 
life. Her only recourse was the “ mother of per- 


828 “ after many days.” 

petual succor,” and to her she had appealed — but 
the appeal was all for her father — that he might not 
feel the effect of the junior member’s animosity. 
Once before, almost a year before — she was in as 
great distress, and the Blessed Mother had not failed 
her. Night working had told sadly on her eyes, 
and gradually, but surely her sight failed — until 
the light, though but of a candle, could not be en- 
dured. 

“ I will make a novena for you, and you join me,” 
her confessor had said — when he found her with 
this new trial. Amy did join in it, and when the 
nine days were past, and yet no relief, nor sign of 
any, but the dull pain and dimness yet, she had 
thought “ If darkness is to be my portion I must 
bear it patiently — thank Grod, there’s light in 
Heaven.” 

But in the course of a few days the pain all left, 
and suddenly, as though He — the light of the world 
had spread the clay upon her eyes, and bade her, 
“go, wash in the pool of Siloe,” her eyes were 
healed. Now, would not the same succor come if 
begged for? Yes, truly, for it is perpetual — and so 
to the same source she goes, and returning finds — 
Walter. 


A year has passed. The April sun is shining, 
and the Easter bells are sending forth their joyous 
peals. Through devious ways has the Almighty’s 
hand brought Amy and her father, at last, to com- 
fort and repose ; this their first Easter in the plea- 


IT SHALL RETITHX. 


(( 


829 


sant home of Walter’s providing, is the most joyous 
their hearts have known in long years — Amy ex- 
periences what it is to be free from care and anxiety 
— what it is to see her father enjoying the long lost 
luxuries he had been born and bred to. Amyknew 
how sacred to Walter was the Easter season; — he 
had told her the history of his childhood — what he 
knew of his mother’s life, and of that death-bed the 
first he had ever stood beside — where and when, he 
had been committed to the care of the risen Saviour. 

“I have never forgotten my Easter duty, and I 
always feel rny mother near me, committing her 
Son anew to that sacred keeping” said Walter on 
this last Easter eve. “ To-morrow Amy w.e will go 
together ; I shall feel that we receive my mother’s 
blessing.” 

Amy’s cheek was dyed in blushes. He had won 
her, and the little maiden and the news-boy of long 
ago, were now betrothed lovers. She did not in- 
deed, go to a news-boy’s stand to find a beau — but 
he had gone to the dark, narrow alley to find the 
daughter of his benefactor, not the haughty, richly, 
dressed maiden, but the poorly clad — poverty pur- 
sued woman. Finding her, he had taken the surest 
method to keep her ever within sight. On this 
glorious Easter morn we find them, within but a 
few days of their bridal, happy as when in child- 
hood she took her daily walk and bought the picture 
paper, and he stood the proud vender of the same — 
with but this difference — it was not now an exchange 
of pennies and papers, but hearts and hands. A 
few more weeks and returned from their bridal trip. 


330 “ AFTER MANY DAYS.’’ 

we find Mr. and Mrs. alter Herbert “receiving” 
in tbeir city home — ^elegant as that of Amy’s child- 
hood. She is now the cherished wife for whom he 
so long sought in vain, and he can take her own 
and the hand of her father, with all the freedom of 
kith and kin, and make them sharers in the fortune 
that — “ with God’s help” — he has accumulated. 

Mr. Collins restored to his old position and lux- 
ury experiences the truth of the Bible promise 
“ It shall return to thee after many days.” His old 
friends, those whom he had known in his prosper- 
ous days, had most of them passed away ; some 
there were who remembered the rich and dashing 
Mr. Coleman Collins of by-gone times, and many 
who, having heard their father’s talk of him as of 
a familiar friend, claimed acquaintance on that 
ground. The father-in-law of Walter Herbert who 
had gained that “ something” he had set out in life 
with a determination to strive for, — a place among 
the first in the land — could not be neglected. He 
could be buried long years in poverty, and be ig- 
nored when the pinched, care-worn face now and 
then came to light in his old business haunts ; but 
then memories were bad, and needed something like 
the good fortune of the old man’s daughter to 
brighten them up. How quickly this marriage, 
which furnished food and speculation to all those 
whom it disappointed in their own hopes, refreshed 
these bad memories! When it, the strange match 
Walter had made — had come to be discussed with 
the composure of an established fact, then every- 
body found something delightful to relate of Mrs. 


831 


“ IT SHALL RETURN.” 

Walter Herbert’s father, — something that would 
please her to hear ; and so Amy in the course of a 
few months heard more of her parent in his wealthy 
days than slie had heard in all her life before. Why 
was it not sooner remembered to his advantage, and 
not brought to light now when his dark days were 
past ? Those days that would have been so bright- 
ened if but half the kind things had fallen upon his 
ear. He found now only good wishes and con- 
gratulations, and accepted all, as something with- 
drawn for awhile by a just God, but given back to 
bless his declining years. In the enjoyment of the 
first substantial pleasure he has known for so long 
a season, he has no wish to question the sincerity 
of all these polite nothings addressed to him now. 
He looks back on the past with a thoughtful eye, 
and thinks if God blesses with children his daugh- 
ters union, he, if living, will strive to educate them 
that they may avoid his mistakes. He has found 
that Easter has indeed something to do with “ eggs 
and religion.” But the ktter is not a rarity with 
Amy’s father ; he finds, as he has said, a happiness 
in its practice, that he was a stranger to in those 
old times, when the poor boy’s “ with God's help" 
“ come Easter" fell ‘ on his ear like a mother’s 
prayer. Among the many trifles on his table there 
is one he often looks at and dreams over — an egg- 
shaped ivory box ; opening with a spring it disclo- 
ses the miniatures of Amy and Walter. On its pol- 
ished surface, in letters of gold are engraved the 
following lines “ To our father:” 


832 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


u 

I dreamed beside a brook ; casting a look 
Upon its bosom fair ; 

On its watery track, returning back, 

Came bread, thou cast in there. 

I lingered near the shore, scarce breathing more, 
To count the grains of sand. 

It gathered had for thee — for all eternity — 

And putting forth my hand, 

I drew the moist-piece in ; with quivering chin, 

I counted — One, two, three — 

Faith, Hope, and Charity had made for thee 
A place, God’s home within. ' 


CATHOLIC BOOKS 

PUBLISHED BT 

PETER F. CUNNINGHAM, 

216 South Third Street, Philadelphia, 


Catholic noctriac as Bctincd by the Council 
of Trent : 


Expounded in 



ra^ 


<"elehrated iSanctBiaries of the Ma- 
doBisia. 

By Rev. J. Spencer Noi-thcoate, D.D, I ublishod with the approbation of the' 
Jfight Eev. Janies Jf^ederick Wood, Bishop of Philadelphia. 1 vol., 12mo. 

Price — Clotli, extra beveled |1 50 

Cloth, gilt edge 2 00 

he Year of Mary; or, The True Servant of 
the Blessed Yirg^in. 


Translated from the French of Rev. M. D’Arville, Apostolic Prothonotary, 
and published with the approbation of the Right Rev. Bishop of Phila- 
delphia, the Most Rev. Archbishop of Baltimore, and the Most Rev. Arch- 
bishop of New York. 1 neat 12mo volume. 


Price — In cloth....'. $1.80^ 

In gilt edges 2.00 


This is a delightful book ; brimful of sweet flowers ; a lovely garland in 
honor of Mary our Mother and powerful intercessor before the throne of her 

Son. 

Well has the Magnificat said, “all generations shall call me blessed;” all 
times, and in all lands, wherever the symbol, upon which her Divine Son 
lansomcd a wicked and undeserving world with his excruciating suffei’ings and 
death, has a votary, her name, spotless and beautiful, shall be pronounced with 
reverence, and her protection implored. 

The tome before us is a collection of the honors paid to Mary by the great 
and good of all lands; by those who, with the diadem of earthly grandeur 
adorning their brows, and vexed political commonwealths to guard and pacify, 
found time to honor the daughter of St. Anne, the beloved Mother of our Loi’d 
and Saviour. 

Buy the book. Read one or two pages. We promise a feast, a desire to read 
the whole, a determination to do so . — (Jatholic Telegraph. 

This work is divided into seventy-two Exercises, corresponding with the 
number of * ears which the Blessed Virgin passed on earth, with a consecration 

( 3 ) 


4 Published by Peter 1. Ounningbam, 


to Mary of the twelve months of the year, in reference to her virtues; also a 
method of using certain of the Exercises by a way of devotion for the “Month 
of Mary,” a Novena in honor of the Immaculate Conception, and other matters 
l)oth interesting and advantageous to the true servant of Mary, and those whc 
would become t ). 


“ Baltimore, April Q, 1865. 

“ Wo willingly unite with the Ordinary of Philadelphia and the Metropolitan 
of New York in approving ‘The Year of Mary,’ republished by Peter P\ Cun- 
ningham, of Philadelphia. 

“ ’ “M. J. SPALDING, 

^'■Archbishop of Baltimore." 


A work presented to the Catholics with such recommendations does not need 
any word of encouragement from us. — Pilot. 

This work meets a want long ungratified. The devotional Exercises which 
make up the book are ingeniously arranged in reference, 1st, to each year of the 
Blessed Virgin’s long residence on earth ; 2d, to every Sunday and festival 
throughout the year. The Exercises are therefore seventy-two in number, cor- 
responding to the generally received belief of the duration of her terrestrial life. 

The First Exercise is thus appropriated to the Immaculate Conception, and 
may be used both for the 8th of December and for the first day of the year. 
The seventy -second celebrates the Assumption, and may be profitably read on 
the 15th of August, and on the last day of the year. 

Each Instruction is prefaced by a text from holy writ, and followed by an 
example, a historical fact, a practice and a prayer. 

The Approbations are: 

1st. By the Roman Theological Censor. • 

2d. By a favorable letter from his Holiness Gregory XVI. 

3d. By the recommendatory signatures of the Archbishops of Baltimore and 
Now York, and the Bishop of Philadelphia. 

This Devotional is a deeply interesting and practical manual, and Mrs. Sadlier, 
who has very skilfully reduced the originally free translation into graceful con- 
formity to the original, has rendered tiie Christian public a most essential ser- 
vice. We wish it the widest circulation. — N. Y. Tablet. 

“The Year of Mary” is one of the most beautiful tributes to the Mother of 
God that a Catholic family could desire to have. Wo are free, however, to 
confess our partiality in noticing any book that treats of the pre-eminent glory 
of her whom God exalted above all created beings. 

But, independently of this consideration, the present volume can bo recom- 
mended on its own special merits. Besides being replete with spiritual instruc- 
tion, it presents a detailed ^iccount of the life of the Blessed Virgin from the 
Conception to the Assumption, and views her under every possible aspect, both 
as regards herself and her relations with man. It lays down the rules by 
which we are to bo guided in our lu-actical devotions towards her ; displays its 
genuine characteristics, and indicates the sublime sentiments by which wo 
ought to be actuated when we pay her our homage, or invoke her assistance. 

“The Year of Mary” contains seventy-two Exercises, in accordance with the 
received opinion of the Church that the Blessed Virgin lived that number of 
years on earth. In these instructions, the reader shall learn her life, her pre- 
rogatives, her glory in Heaven, and her boundless goodness to mankind. Wo 
would like to see this book in every Catholic family in the country. Itlsimpos- 
siblo for us to honor the Mother of God sulficiently well. But in reading this 
book, or any like it, we must ever bear in mind that acts, not mere profe.ssions 
of piety, should be the distinctive marks of “the true servant of the Blessed 
Virgin,” and that she is really honored, only iu so far as wo imitate her virtues 
for the sake of Him through whom alone we can hope for eternal life. 

The name of Mrs. Sadlier is fanjiliar to the imldio ; her talents as an authore.ss 
are too well known to need any eulogy here ; she is an accomplished lady, and 
has faithful y done her part. As to the publisher, Mr. Cunuingham, we say, 
without flattery, that he has done a good work iu presenting this excellent 
book to bis fellow-Catholics, and with all our heart we wish him the falhi.st 
measure of success to which this noble enterprise entitles him. — Y /jc Monthly. 


216 South Third Street, Philadelphia 


5 


]^!3^edilaiions of St. ffg^eiatius ; or, TBie Spiri* 
toal Exercises’’ expounded. 

By Father Siniscalchi, of the Society of Jesus. 

Published wivh the approbation of the Right Rev. Bishop of Philadelphia, 
. 1 wol. 12mo. 


Price— Neatly bound in cloth, gilt back, 


$1.50 


The fame of the great founder of the Society of Jesu.s, would itself insure the 
characte»’ of the above book of meditations, as one of the most meritorious kind. 
Bat the greater part of Catholics of all nations have been made familiar with 
the nature, object, and (ifliciency of these meditations in the Spiritual Ketreats 
conducted by the Fathers of this Society, in every language, in every country, 
and almost every ti>wu of Christendom. We are glad to see this valuable work 
published in our country and tongue, and feel assured it will be heartily 
welcomed by the multitudes who are familiar with it, if in no other way, at 
least from the free use which is made of it in the Jesuit MLssious, forming, 
as it does, the basis of all those inspiriting exercises which constitute a 
spiritual retreat . — Catholic Mirror. 

This is the first American edition of this celebrated work, which has been 
translated into nearly all the European languages. It supplies a want long 
felt in America. It is an excellent book of Meditations for the family, but* it is 
particularly adapted for those attending Hetreats or Missions, especially those 
given by the Jesuits, whoso method this is. We caunot too strongly recommend 
this book to the Catholic pubbc — New York Tdbht. 

This is a timely publication of the Meditations of St. Ignatius, and the Catholic 
community are indebted to the Philadelphia publisher for bringing the work 
within their rc.'icli. In Europe, where it is well known, it would be superfluous 
to do more than call attention to the fact of a new edition being published ; but 
inasmuch as American Catholics have not had au opportunity of becoming very 
familiar with the work, it may not be out of place to say a few words concern- 
ing it. 

TJic Meditations are twenty-two in number, each divided into three parts, and 
in each division the subject is viewed, as it were, from a different point of view, 
the last being always the most striking. Death, Judgment, Hell, and Heaven, 
the Mysteries of the Saviour’s Life, and the Happiness of Divine Love — these 
are the subjects of the Saint'.s meditations, and every consideration germain to 
such topics calculated to excite the feelings or influence the judgment, is brought 
before the reader in simple, forcible language, or impressed on the mind by 
means of a striking anecdote or opposite illustration. The volume is thickly 
strewn with quotations from sacred and patritic writings, and the whole range 
of p.ofane history is laid under contribution to furnish material wherewith to 
po'ut a moral or enforce a truth. 

No Catholic family should bo without this book, and no Catholic library 
should be depending on one copy. It is a noble edition to the ever-increasing 
stock of Catholic devotional literature, and wo hope the publisher’s judicious 
venture will be successful. We must not omit to mention that the publication 
has received the official sanction of the Eight Kev. Bishop of Philadelphia.— 
iidropolitan Record. 



^acerdos^ Sancfificatiis 5 or, Discourses on 
tiae Mass and Office, 

With a Preparation and Thanksgiving before and after Mass for every 
aay in the week Translated from the Italian of St. Alphonsus Ligouri, 


By the Kev. James Jones. 

1 vol. ISrno. 

Price— Neatly bound in cloth, 


80 Jts, 


Pablighed by Peter F, CuniiiDgliam, 


he ILifie of St. Teresa. 

Written by herself. 

Translated f,-om the Spanish, by ReT. Can<)n Dalton, and published with 
the approbation of the Right Rev. Bishop of Philadelphia. 1 vel. 


12mo., neatly bound in cloth. 

Price — In cloth $1,50 

In cloth, gilt edge 2.00 


lie Life of St. CaUieriiie of Sienna. 

By Blessed Eaymond of Capua, her Confessor. 

Translated from the French, by the Ladies of the Sacred Heart. Witli 
the approbation of tiie Right Rev. Bishop of Philadelphia. 1 vol. 


12mo., neaily bound in cloth. 

Price— In cloth $1.60 

In cloth, gilt edge 2.00 


ifc of St. Margaret of Cortona. 

Translated from the Italian, by John Gilmary Shea, and published with 
the approbation of the Right Rev. Bishop of Philadelphia. 1 vol. 16mo., 
neatly bound in cloth, gilt backs. 

Price 80 cents. 


lie Life of St. Angela Merici of Brescia. 
Foundress of tSie Order of St. Ursula. 

By the Abbe Parenty. 

With a History of the Order in Ireland, Canada and the United States, 
by John Gilmary Shea. Published with the approbation of the Rigid 
Rev. Bishop of Philadelphia. 1vol. 16mo., cloth, gilt back. 

Price 80 cents. 


lie Fife of Blessed Mary Ann of Jesus^ 

de Parades y Flores. “ The Lily of Quito.” 

By Father Joseph Boero, S. J. 

Translated from the Italian by a Father of the Society of Jesus, and pub- 
lished with the approbatiou of the Right Rev. Bishop of Philadelphia. 
1 vol. Idmo., neatly bound in cloth, gilt back. 

Price 80 cents. 


lie Fife of St. Rose of L.ima. 

Edited by the Rev Frederick William Faber, D. D., and published with 
the approbation of the Right R'lv Bishop of Philadelphia. 1 vol., larg? 
16mo , neatly bound in clot a, gilt back. 

Price— Ouly 80 cents. 


216 South Third Street, Philadelphia! 


7 


rHi 

■_ lie Ltife of St. Cecilia, 

Virgin and Martyr. 

Translated from the French of Father Gueranger, and published with th# 
approbation of the Right Rev. Bishop of Philadelphia. 


1 vol, 12mo. 

Price— In cloth $1.50 

In cloth, gilt edge 2.00 


The above is one of the most interesting works which has been issued for some 
time from the Catholic press in this country. The life auu martyrdom of Saint 
Cecilia, is itself, one of the most beautiful chapters in the history of the Churcn. 
The account of it by Gueranger is most touching. It combines all the spright- 
liness of romance, with tne solid truth of history. The author is one of the 
most learned archaeologists that has appeared in this century, and is well known 
for many learned works. In connection with the life of Sc. Cecilia, he gives a 
graphic account of the state of the Church at the time of the persecutions under 
the Roman Emperors. There is a beautiful description of the catacombs and of 
the usages of the Christains in paying honor to the martyrs. In reading his work 
we seem to be transferred to tneir days. The character of St. Cecilia is drawn 
out in the most vivid colors, though the account is almost entirely taken from 
the ancient Acts, the authenticity of which is ab:y vindicated by tho learned 
author. He then gives an account of the Church, built at her own request on 
the spot where she suffered. This goes over a period of over sixteen hundred 
years. It has been, du ring all that time, one of the most clearly cherished sanctu- 
aries of Rome. The incidental accounts of various matters connected with the 
history of the Saint and her Church, are themselves sutflcient to give great inter- 
est to the volume, we hardly know which to admire most in this work — the 
information imparted on many most interesting topics, the healthy tone of the 
work, so well calculated to enliven faith, and cherish a devout sjurit, or the 
beauty of the style of the author who nas weaved the whole into so interesting 
a narrative, that no romance can vie with this truthful account of the patroness 
of song . — Baltimore Catholic Mirror. 

We are glad to see that the American public have been favored with this very 
interesting work. While the name of the author is a guarantee for historical 
accuracy, and learned research, the period of which it treats is one of great in- 
terest to the Catholic. In these pages one can learn the manners and customs of 
the early Christians, and their sufferings, and gain no little insight into their 
daily life. The devotion to the Saints is becoming daily more practical, and we 
are glao to see revived the memory of the ancient iieroes and heioines whom the 
Church has honored in a special manner. The mechanical execution of the 
American edition is very good . — Catholic Standard. 

We cannot sufficiently admire and commend to the attention of our readers, 
young and old, this delightful work. The tenderness and exquisite refinement 
and purity which surround, like a veil, the character of tne lovely St. Cecilia, 
•erve to throw into stronger relief the unfaltering courage by which she won tne 
crown of martyrdom. The author has made use of all the authentic and import- 
ant details connected with the life ana death of the Saint, following the most 
approved authorities. The discoveries of her tomb in the ninth and sixteenth 
centuries form not the least interesting portion of the work, and the description 
of the churcn, which was once ner dwelling and the witness of her sufferings and 
triumphs, brings those scenes so vividly before us that Cecilia seems to belong 
as much to our own day as to the period when youpg, beautiful, wealthy and 
accomplished, the virgin bride of the noble Valerian laid down her life for tha 
martyr’s crown of faith. — N. Y. Tablet. 


8 Published by Peter P. Cunningham, 


Mr. Cunningham, of Philadelphia, has earned a new claim on our gratitu-l« by 
publishing the L.iFE OF SAINT CECILIA, VlllGlN AND MARTYR. Ih* 
Acts of her martyrdom are a monument of the wonderful ways of God, and most 
sweet record of Cnristian heroism, heavenly love, and prodigious cims^ancy. 
Her very name has inspired Christianity for hfteen centuries, with courag-?, and 
the noblest aspirations. The work is a translation from the French of 
(iuerangfr. We have had only time to read the title, preface, and a few pages 
before going to press. But w'e can say this much, that it was a very nappy 
thought to undertake this translation, and we know of no other book should 
like to see in me hands of Catholics so much as the LIFE OF SAINT CECiLl ^ 
VIRGIN AND MARTYR.— 

Mr. Peter F. Luuningham has jusi biought out, in very a mirahle style, the 

Ihfe ( f St. LecLia,’' from the i'\ench of the celebrated lywia. Gueraiig^r. It 
is ditilcult to iinu a moie delightful volume than this. Jti subj.'Ct is o\\e of 
the most attractive in ail the annals of the Church; and iLS au.hor one \ f the 
most pious and gifted of modern French writers : the result is one of Mir most 
charming contributions ever made to Catholic literaiure. As intiinatec the 
publisher has done nis part in printing, in paper, and in bind*ijg. We n turn 
Him thanks for a copy. — Phiiadeij^nia Unuer^-e^ Oct. 6. 

This is a most interesting volume, truer than history and stranger than fic- 
tion. The author does not oonfine nimself to the details of the iSaint’s lifo and 
martyrdom, but describes, vvith the faithfulness and minuteness of an antiquary, 
the wondeisof Imperial and Christian Romc--the catacombs, the basilicas, the 
manners of the times, the persecutions of the Christians, etc. The book is 
handsomely got up, and enriched with a portrait of tU Cecilia seated at her 
harp. — iV. Y. Met- Record. 

We have received this beautiful and very interesting life of one of the most 
beautiful Saints of the Church Tne reading public ought to be much obliged 
to the Publisher for giving them such a work. It abounds in the subllmest 
sentiments of divine Ijve and human devotion, such as Catholics would expect 
from tne life of such a Saint ; and at the same time portrays the combat of rising 
Christianity and decaying paganism in the livehst colors. Such works as this 
form the proper staple of reading for all who desire to become acquainted with 
tne period to which it refers, ana who cannot alTord to purchase or peruse the 
more profound works of our llistoi lans.— N. V. Catholic. 

The name of the learned and religious Abbot of Solesmes, Dom. Gueranger, 
was long since rnaJe familiar and pleasant to us, in the pages of Chevaiier 
Bonnetty’s learned periodical, the Annul 'S Pkilosophie Chrtd'venne.^ pub- 
lishetl in Paris. In the rag^s of his Life of St. Cecilia” — which w'e have not 
met with in the French, — w^e have the same high talent devoted to other than 
lituigic themes. This is an admirable volume, well translated. The quiet 
style in whicn the story is told of the great honor with which Catholic ages 
have crowned St. Cecilia, is charming. — iV. Y. Freeman'^ a Journal* 

of St. Agnes of Rome, Virgin and Martyr. 

PiiHEished with the approbation of the Right Rev. Bishop of Philadelphia. 

1 voi. ISmo., neatly bound in cloth, with a beautiful steel plate Por~ 
trait of the “Youthful Martyr of Rome.” 

Frioo 45 cent&t 

^!Kan'*s CJontract witli God in Baptism. 


Translated from the French by Rev. J. M. Cullen, 1 voL, 18mo. 

Price 30 centA 


9 


Published by Peter F. Ounningham, 


id\£e 


of St, ASoysasas Gofiuzaga, 


Of the Society of JTestis. 

Edited by Edward Ilealy Thompson. Published with the approbation of tha 
E . Rev Bishop of Philadelphia. 1 vol,, 12mo., neat cloth, beveled, $1.50. 
Cloth, Gilt, $i.00. 

This id the best life of the Saint yet pnblished in the English language, 
and should be read by both the young and old. 


rgi 

M. lie Life of Blessed Jolin Bercluuans 


of tlie Society of Jesus. 


Translated from the French. With an appendix, ^ving an account of 
the miracles after death, which have been approved by the Holy See. 
From the Italian of Father Borgo, S. .1. Published with the approbation 
oi thQ Right Rev. Bishop of Philadelphia. 1vol. 12mo. 


Price— In cloth p.6o 

In cloth, gilt edge $2.C0 


lie liife of St. Stanislas lioska of tlie Society 
of Jesus. 

By Edward Healy Thompson, A.M. 

Published with the approbation of the Right Rev. Bishop of Philadelphia. 


1 vol. 12mo. Clotli extra beveled $’> 50 

Cloth full edges $2.U0 


The Society of Jesus, laboring in all things for the “ Greater glory of God," 
has accomplished, if not more, as much, towards that pious object, as ever did 
any Institution of our holy religion. Actuated by that sublime and single 
motive, it has given the world as brilliant scholars, historians and men of 
science in all departments, as have ever yet adorned its annals. Nor is this by 
any means its greatest boast ; it is what has been achieved by the Society in the 
advancement of Catholicity and sanctity, that makes tlio brightest gem in its 
coronet. It is in that, that it is most precious in the sight of the angels of God ; 
it is for that its children will sing with them a now canticle on high. It has 
peopled heaven with a host of sainted choristers, many of them endowed with 
a world-wide fame for sanctity, and many, like Blessed Berchmans. ’inown to 
but few beyond tho pale of her order. This saintly youth, like Sc. Aloysiui 
and St. Stanislaus, died young, but a model of that true wisdom which never 
loses sight of the end for which man i.s created. Tho work before ns boauti* 
fully describes the virtues, and the exemplary life and practices of this pious 
youth, and is richly entitled to a place in every Catholic library . — Catholic 
Mii'ror. 

Mr. P. F. Cunningham, of Philadelphia, may avoU rejoice, in his Catholic 
heart, for having given u.s this vvork, tho perusal of which must needs be the 
source of immense good. No he ter work can be placed in tho hands of Re- 
ligious novices Perhaps no other book has fired those privileged souls with 
more fervid aspiratioa.s towards attaining tlio p-'idestion proper of their reli- 
gious professions A perfect pattern is placed before them, acd whilst ths 
heart s drawn towards it with admirin ' love, the reader canu l allege any 
honest c®ase whereby to excuse him.solf from following the noble exampie 
placed before him. Blesskd Berchmans teaches, by his own life, that perfec- 
tion is to be attained in the fa, thfal and conscientious discharge of the duties of 
one’s daily life, whatever its circumstances may he. An exceixeat, most cx 
•client book this will also prove for sodalists.— A’oA'fow Pilot. 


10 Published by Peter F, Cunningham, 


This is the fullest and best life published of this remarkable servant of God. 
John Berchmans lived at the beginning of the seventeenth centuiy. He died 
at Rome, '.n his twenty-third year — a model of purity and devotion. We can- 
not bettei notice this volume than by copying the opening words of the Brief of 
his Beatification, pronounced by the Holy Father, last year: 

“As youth is the foundation of manhood, and men do not readily In after life 
turn from the path they have trod from earliest years; that there be no excuse 
on plea of age or strength, for swerving from tho ways of virtue, the All-wise 
Providence has ordered it that there should bloom, from time to time, in tho 
Church, one and another yoidh eminent for sanctity, realizing the eulogium ; 
‘ Made perfect in a short space, be fulfilled a long time.’ ” 

As such an one, the life of Blessed John Berchmans commends itself to the 
study especially of pious youth. — N. P. Freeman's Journal. 

It is unnecessary for us to say anything in recommendation of a life of the 
Blessed Berchmans. The devotion so long entertained for him, now solemnly 
approved by the Church, will cause many to read with delight and spiritual 
profit, this authentic account of his life and virtues. The Bishops of Belgium 
expressed their ardent wishes for the beatification of blessed John, hoping that 
through his intercession the great works of tho Christian education of youth, 
which they are so nobly carrying on, might be furthered and made more and 
more successful. In the United States there is a similar work to be done, and 
wo hope and pray that the blessed Berchmans will not forget our wants in his 
supplications to the Father of Mercies. 

We recommend the work before ns to the young especially, among whom it 
should be widely circulated . — Catholic Standard. 

e Life of St. CliarSes fSorroitieo. 

By Edward Healey Thompson. 

Puldishefl with the approbation of the llight Rev. Bishop of 
rhiladelphia. 1vol. 12mo. 

ClC'th, extra beveled 

“ ‘‘ gilt edge 

T Ise Sodalist’s Friend. A Beautiful Collec- 
tion of Meditations and Prayers. 

Compiled and translated from approved sources, for the use of members 
and leaders of confraternities. 1 vol. 18mo., neatly bound. 


Price— In cloth so cents. 

Roan embossed $1.00 

Embossed gilt l.-iO 

Full gilt edges and sides 2.00 

Turkey, superior extra 3.00 


JL he Month of the Sacred Heart. * 

Arranged for each day of the month of June. Containing also the Arch 
Confraternity of Sacred Heart, and Father Borgo’s Novena to tho Sacred 
Heart of Jesus. With the approbation of tho Right Rev. Bishop of 
Philadelphia. 1 neat rol. 24mo. Cloth, gilt back. 

Price 


,$1 50 
, 2 CO 



50 cents. 


216 South Third Street, Philadelphia. 11 



lie Montli of SI. Joscpb. 


Arranged for each day of the month of March. From the French of the 
Rev. Father Huguet, of the “Society of St. M.ary.” Published with the 
approbation of the Right Rev. Bishop of Philac^lphia. 1 neat vol. 
18mo. Cloth, gilt back. 

Price cents. 

An attentive pernsal of this little work will prove, with a sincere utterance of 
the prayers contained therein, a powerful means to reform one’s life. Let us 
secure the friendship and intercession of St. Joseph. Ho is the foster-father of 
our Saviour. He can say a good word for us, indeed. O, the beauty of Catholic 
devotions! how its practices, when in direct connection with the life and teach- 
ings of Jesus Christ, fill the soul with happiness and hope ! — Boston Pilot. 

This will be found to be an interesting book to all the children of Mary, and 
the lovers of her pure, saintly, and glorious spouse, Sr. Jo.seph. It is a good 
companion to the lovely “Mouth of May .’’ — New York Tablet. 



lie Liillc ©Mces. 


Translated from the French by the Ladies of the Sacred Heart. Contain- 
ing the Little Olfices of the Sacred Heart, Holy Ghost, Immaculate Con- 
ception, Our Lady of Seven Dolours, Most Holy Heart of Mary, Holy 
Angel Guardian, St Joseph, St. Louis de Gonzaga, St. Stanislaus, St. 
Jude, Apostle. To which is added a Devout Method of Hearing Mass. 
Published with the approbation of the Right Rev. Bishop of Philadelphia. 
1 vol. ISmo. Neatly bound. 

Price 50 cents. 

T lie RcligflOMS SoMl Elevaled lo Perfectioii, 
by tbc Exercises of an laiterior Eafe. 

From the French of the Abbe Baudrand, author of “The Elevation of 
Soul” 1 vol. ISmo. 

Price 69 cents. 


I. 


a Merc de ©ieii. 


A beautiful and very edifying work on the Glories and Virtues of the 
Blessed Virgin Mary, Mother of G id ; from the Italian of Father Alphonse 
Capecclatro, of the Oratory of Naples, with an Introductory Letter of 
Father Gratry, of the Paris Oratory. Published with the approbation of 
ih.0 Right Rev. Bishop of Philadelphia. 1 neat vol. 18mo. Cloth. 

Price 50 cents. 

T lie Rofiiian Calacombs ; or, Soaiic account 
oftbc Burial Places of tbe Early €bris- 


taans in Rocnc* 


By Rev. J. Spencer Northcoate, M. A , with Maps and various Illustra- 
tions. Published with the approbation of the Right Rev. Bishop of Phila* 
delphia. 

1 vol., 16mo., neatly bound in cloth, gil back. 

Price. 


80 cents. 


12 Published by Peter F. Cunningham, 



etters Addressed to a Protestant Friend. 


By a Catholic Priest. With a Preface by the Right Rev. Bishop Becker. 
1 vol. 12mo. Cloth extra beveled 

tJliarity and TmtSs; or. Catholics not un- 
cliaritaMe in saying^ that None are 
Saved ont of the CatSiolic Cliurcli. 


By the Eev. Edward Hawarden, 

Published with the approbation of the Bight Rev. Bishop of Philadelphia. 

1 vol. 12mo. 

Price — Neatly bound in cloth $1.0C 

In this hook, the learned and earnest author discusses a question of vital im- 
portance to all, viz.: Is there salvation out of the Catholic Communion? At 
the present moment, when the strongest proof of Christianity, in the popular 
opinion, is a belief that every road leads to heaven, and that every man who 
lives a moral life is sure to be saved, the very title of this book will grate 
harshly on many cars. To such we w^uld say— Read the work, and learn that 
a charitable judgment may he ver/ unfavorable, and a favorable judgment 
may he very uncharitable ” “Charity and Truth’’ is the work of one of the 
ablest controversialists and most learned theologians of the Catholic Church in 
England. The method adopted in “Charity and Truth” is the catechetical, and 
to iiolp the memory the questions are pet in large characters at the top of each 
page. In the preface, the Reverend reviewer takes up and disposes of six 
vulgar errors, — 1st. That it is charity to suppose all men saved whose life is 
morally honest. 2d. That the infinite goodness of God will not suffer the 
greater part of mankind to perish. 3d. That it is charity to believe the Jews 
and Turks arc saved. 4th. That if I judge more favorably of the salvation of 
another man than he does of mine, I am the more charitable of the two. 5th. 
That, setting all other considerations apart, if Protestants judge more favor- 
ably of the salvation of Catholics than Catholics do of theirs, Protestants are 
on the moi’e charitable side. 6th. That he is uncharitable whoever supposes 
that none are saved in any other religion unless they are excused by invinci- 
ble ignorance. — Record. 

We owe Mr. Cunningham an apology for not having noticed this work ere 
this ; and we should have done it more readily, as we hail with utmost pleasiii'e 
the repuhlication of one of those works written by the uncompromising cham- 
pions of the Church during the hottest day.s of persecution and Catholic disa- 
bilities in England. We have often wished that soino of the learned professors 
of the illustrious College of Georgetown would select from among the numerous 
collection they have of books written by English missionaries during the first 
two centuries of persecution in England, some such work as “Charity and 
Truth,” and republish them in this country. These works will not please, of 
course, our milk and water Catholics. But, after all, they are the real kind of 
works we need. It is high time that we should take the aggiessive. We have 
put up long enough with Protestant attacks. We owe nothing to Protestants. 
We liave allowed them to say all kind of things to us. We have received with 
thanks the benign condescension with which they grant us the merit of there 
being some good people among the Catholics, and that some bishops and priests 
arc clever, in spile of their being Catholics. We have bowed so low as to kiss 
the right hand that has patted us ou the head, wh le the left was lifting its 
thumb to the nose of the smiling but double-hearted ca’ esser. It is high time, we 
say, that we should do away with this sycophancy. It is high time that war 
was carried to the heart of the enemy’s couutry. Hence we are thankful to the 
American editor of this work. Let Catholics buy it, read it, and then give it 
to their Protestant acquaintances,— Pilot. 


CATHOLIC TALES 


Speech SlnlT. A Tale of tlie Soutli Before tlie 
War. 


B7 Fannie Warner. 


1 vol. 12mo. Cloth extra beveled $1.50 

Cloth gilt edge $2.00 


f erncliile. 


Ti 


A Catholic Tale of great merit 1 volume 12mo. 

r rice— Cloth, extra beveled $1 M 

Cloth, gilt edges 2 00 

le Monfar^es f.<egacy. 

A Charming Catholic Tale, by Florence McCoomb, (Miss Meline, of Washing 
too,) 1 volume, small 12mo. 

Price— Cloth, extra beveled * 80 

Cloth, gilt 1 00 

race Morton ; or^ Tlie Inlieritance. 


A new and beautiful Catholic tale, written by Miss Meaney of Philadelphia.* 
1 voL, large ISmo., neatly bound in cloth. 

Price 80 cents. 

This is a pleasing story, instructive as well as amusing, and worth an espe- 
cial place in the library of youthful Catholics. It depicts with rare skill the 
trials and sacrifices which attend the profession of the true Faith, and which 
are so often exacted of us by the fostering solicitude of our Mother the Church. 
—Catholic Mirror. 

A chastely written Catholic tale of American life, which is most pleasantly 
narrated ; and conveys much that is instructive and elevating . — Irish American. 


lie Knout ; a Tale of Poland. 


Translated from the French by Mrs. J. Sadlier. 

1 vol., large 18mo., neatly bound in cloth, gilt back, with frontispiece. 

Price 8® cents. 



aura and Anna; 


or^ Tlie Effect of Faitli on 


tlie Cliaracter. 

A beautiful tale, translated from the French by a young lady, a Gradual* 
of St. Joseph’s, Emmittsburg. 

1 vol. 18mo., neatly bound in cloth. 

Price cents. 

^ he Confessors of Connaught 5 or. The Ten- 


ants of a Lord Bishop. 


A tale of Evictions in Ireland, 
ton.” 

Small 12mo., cloth. 

Price 


By Miss Meaney, author of “ Grace Mor- 


80 cents. 


Bead this bouk and you will have a feeling knowledge of the sufferings of 
our brethren in the Isle of Saints . — Boston Pilot. 

This is a story of Irish evictions, founded upon well-known facts. The de. 


14 Published by Peter F. Cunningham, 

plorable Infatuation of Lord Plunkett, Protestant Bishop of Tuam and landlord 
of a great portion of the town of Partry and its vicinity, is perhaps still fresh 
In the memory of our readers. 

That a man not deficient in intellectual attainments, and really anxious to 
stand well with his tenantry, should have turned a deaf ear to all generous 
remonstrances, and should have persisted in believing that in this nineteenth 
century the dispossession of a multitude of helpless tenants at will in the midst 
of winter, was on the whole a good expedient for making the evictor’s “ re- 
ligion popular among the victims,” is one of the most impressive illustrations 
we have ever met with of the incnrableness of judicial blindness, when con- 
tracted in opposing the Catholic Church. 

This is the reflection forced upon the reader of the “Confessors of Connaught,” 
a tale put together with remarkable skill. — Tablet. 

We have read this work with great satisfaction. What pleases us most is to 
find that those noble Irish peasantry who, for the sake of their religion, were 
willing to endure the loss of homes, food and raiment, and all earthly com- 
forts, have found a worthy champion to perpetuate the memory of their noble 
Bacriflces. God bless the noble and accomplished lady who has undertaken this 
glorious task. — Baltimore Catholic Mirror. 

M- be Yoiingr Catholic’s L.ibrary. 

In neat ISmo. vols., cloth. Each cents. 

The following volumes are now ready : 

THE YOUNG CATHOLIC’S LIBRARY. 

I. Cottage Evening Tales for Young People. Six Charming Tales; 
one for each day of the week. 1 vol. ISmo. Neat Cloth, tO cts. 

Children of the Valleg ; or. The Ghost of the Kuins. A beautiful 
Catholic Tale, from the French. 1 vol. IFmo Neat Cloth, 50 cts. 

3. Mag Carleton’s Story ; or, The Catholic Maiden’s Cross. And, The 
Miller’s Daughter; or, The Charms of Virtue. Two lovely Tales in 1 
vol. 18mo. Neat Cloth, 50<cts. 

4, Philip Hartley ; or, A Boy's Trials and Triumphs. A Tale by the 
author of “Grace Morton,” etc. 1 vol. 18mo. Neat Cloth, 50 cts. 

6, Count Leslie; or. The Triumph of Filial Piety. A Catholic Tale of 
great interest. 1 vol. 18mo. Neat Cloth, 50 cts. 

G. A. father’s Tales, of the French Revolution. Delightful Stories for 
Catholic Youth. First series, 1 vol. 18mo. Neat Cloth 50 cts. 

7, Palph Perrien, and other Tales of the French Revolution. Second 
series. 1 vol. 18mo. 60 cts. 

8, Silver Orange. A charming American Catholic Tale. And, Philiip- 
pine; or, The Captive Bride. Both in 1 vol. 18mo. 60 cts. 

O. Helena If a Story of the Rosary. 1vol. 18mo. 50 cts. 

10, Charles and Frederick. A beautiful Story, by Rev. John P. 
Donnellon. 1 vol. 18mo. 50 cts. 

II. !Z7ie jBeat//brf.v, a Story of the Alleghanies. 1vol. 18mo. 50 cts. 

l‘J. Lauretta and the Fables. A charming little Book for Young 

People. 1 vol. 18mo. 50 cts. 

13. Conrad and Gertrude, the Little Wanderers. A lovely Swiss 
Tale. 1 vol. 18mo. • 6'i cts. 

^4. 5f7*ree JPetftiow.v, a Tale of Poland. 1vol. ]8nio. 50 cts. 

15. Alice; or. The Rose of the Black Forest. A German Story. 1 vol. 
18mo. 60 cts. 

16. Caroline; or. Self-Conquest. 1 vol., 18mo. 50 cts. 

17. Tales of the Commandments. Ivol , 18nio. 50 cts. 

18. The Seven Corporal Works of Mercy. 1 vol., 18mo. 

19. Elinor Johnson. Founded on Facts, and a beautiful Catholic Tale. 1 wU, 
ISmo. Cloth. .50 cts. 

20 . The Queen’s Daughter ; or the Orphan of La Granga. 1 vol. 18n*« 
50 cts. 

21. Hetty Homer, or Tried, but True. A charming Tale, by Fannie 
Warner. 50 cts. 

Other volumes of this series are preparing for publication. 


216 South Third Street, Philadelphia. 15 
-A.lphonso; or, the Triumph of Religion. 

1 vol. small 12 mo. neat cloth. Price 

We have the pleasure to annouuce another of Mr. Cunningham’s works, Al- 
phonso, or the Triumph of Religiou. It contains everything calculated to instruct 
amled.ly at the same time, and we think it a work that will be read with 
great pleasure by all our readers . — Spare Ilnur n. 

The great merit of this excellent story is, that it points out with singular 
power and eloquence the evils that inevitably arise from an irreligious education. 
In our country, where we are so constantly exposed to this dangqy, either from 
the ina^quacy of proper schools, or from the inoifl’erence or neglect of parents, 
^very effort in the good cause is welcome, and many a one may be awakened by 
reading this beautiful tale to some rellections, on the evil ellects of a Godless 
education, and that to very few is granted a special interposition of Divine 
grace, as in the ca.se of “Alphonso,” to save them from its fatal consequen- 
ces. — Aew York Tablet. 

The scenes of this book are laid in France, but the moral applies with equal 
force to our own country. Tho work is intended to shew the evil effects of an 
irreligious education, and does so with great force and effect. The tale is from 
the pen of a gifted Irish lady, and well worth reading. Those who are sluggish 
in their response to our Most llev. Archbishop’s tecent call in behalf of an In- 
dustrial School, should take a lesson from this valuable little book.— UaiMmor# 
Catholic Mirror, 


A History of England, 

For The Young. 

Compiled by the Sisters of the Holy Child Je^us, for the use of their 
schools in England, and republished for the use of the Catholic Schools in 
the United States, 

1 vol. 12 mo 80 cts 

This is an admirable compendium of English history, deserving a place in all 
our schools. It is well arranged for a class book, having genealogical tables, a 
good index, and questions for each c'hs.ytee.— Catholic Mirror. 

This is a most valuable little book, giving just sufficient information to interest 
and attract the young without wearying them with superabundance of dates which 
they rarely remember, and dry statistics which they never read unless compelled 
to do so. (a mo--! injudicious process,) while by means of excellent genealogical 
and chronological taoles, it furnishes to those disposed to seek it, ample instruc- 
tion and it will most probably inspire in the mind of an intelligent child, the 
wish to rea>i more extended works. We take pleasure in commending thii 
“ History of England” to the attention of all those interested in providing agree- 
able means of improvement to children.— A Y. Tablet, 

Mr. Peter F. Cunningham, 216 South Third street, has published a history of 
England, for the young written by a religiouse. It is properly a narralive his- 
tory and is in such a style as is most calculated to attract and retain tho atten- 
tion’ of the youthful min(i. D supplies a want which has never befo-e been 
sufficiently met, ami which has long been needed in our schools. Lingatd’s and 
Macauley’s histories are well adapted to more advanced pupils, butane not. suitable 
for beginners. This history has already been introduced into some of our Cith -'lic 
schnch, and it is the design to make it a text book for all jf them — Phiiaoclp/um 
Universe. 


16 


Published by Peter F. Cune'ngham. 

PRAYER BOOKS. 

FLOWER GARDEN. 

An admirable small Pr.iyer Book. Contains Morning and Evening 
Prayers, Mass Prayers Ordinary of tht Mass, (in Latin and English,) 
Vespers, Forty Hours Devotion, Stations of the Cross, and a, great va- 
riety of otber'practical devotions, all together forming the most com- 
plete small Prayer Book yet printed. 1 vol., 32ino. 

No. 1, Neat cloth, variety of nice bright colors $0 45 

•2, Roan, embossed, gilt edge 0 80 

3, “ “ “ and clasp 1 00 

4, “ full gilt edges and sides 1 00 

5, “ “ •• ‘ and clasp 1.25 

FLOWER GARDEN, 32mo., fine edition, printed on the finest quality 
of paper, and made up in the neatest and very best manner : 

No. 6, Turkey, super extra, full gilt or plain sides, red 

or gilt edges stilf or flexible ?2 50 

7, Turkey, super extra, full gilt or plain sides, red 

or gilt edges, with clasp 2 75 

8, Turkey, super extra, rims and clasp.. 4 00 

0, Calf, extra, stilf or flexible, very neat 2 75 

10, “ ■* with clasp 3 00 

11, “ “ rims and clasp 4 50 

12, Velvet, full ornaments, rims, clasps and ovals... 6 00 

LITTLE FLOWER GARDEN. 

A beautiful miniature Pi'ayer Book. 4Smo. Containing a selection, 
of practical devotions, and made up in a variety of beautiful styles 
of binding. 

No. 1, Neat cloth variety of plain and bright colors. . .$0 20 


2 Roan, embossed, gilt edges 0 40 

3, “ full gilt edges and sides 0 50 

4, ‘‘ tucks, very neat 0 00 

6. Turkey, super extra, full gilt or plain sides, red 

or gilt edges 1 50 

6, Turkey, super extra, full gilt or plain sides, with 

fine gilt clasp •. 1 75 

7, Turkey, super extra, rims and clasp 2 50 

8, Calf, extra; red or gilt edges, very neat 1 75 

9, “ “ “ “ Avith clasp 2 <0 

10, “ “ rims and clasp 3 00 


DAILY DEVOTIONS FOR CATHOLICS. 

An admirable small Prayer Book. 32mo., with very large type, 
(English,) good for thesliort-sighted, and for all who like to read with 


ease, wiihout the necessity of using glasses. 

No. 1, Neat cloth, variety of nice briglit colors $0 45 

2, Roan, embossed, gilt edge 0 80 

3, “ “ “ and clasp 1 00 

4, “ full gilt edges and sides 1 00 

5, “ “ “ “ and clasp 1 25 

G, Turkey, super extra, full gilt or plain sides, red 

or gill edges, stiff or flexible 2 50 

7, Turkey, super extra, full gilt or plain sides, red 

or gilt etlges, with clasp 2 75 

8, Turkey, super extra rims and clasp 4 00 

9, Calf, extra, stiff' or flexible, very neat 2 75 

10, “ “ “ with clasp 3 00 

11, “ “ “ rims and clasp 4 50 

12, Velvet, full ornaments, rims, clasps and ova s... 6 to 


17 


216 South Third Street. Philadelphia. 

MANUAL OF DEVOTION. 

An excellent 32mo. Prayer Book, with illuslrations of the Mass. 

No. 1. Neat cloth, a variety of plain and bright colors. $0 30 

2, Roan, embossed gilt edges 0 60 

3, “ “ and clasp 0 8) 

4, ‘‘ full gilt edges and sides 0 8 ) 

5, “ “ and clasp 1 00 

6, Turkey, super extra, full gilt or plain sides 2 50 

7, “ “ rims and clasp 3 rO 

8, Calf, extra, stiff or flexible, bound very neat 2 75 

9, “ “ ‘ ami clasp 3 to 

* 10, “ rims and clasp 4 00 

DAILY EXERCISE. 


A beautiful miniature Prayer Book. 48mo., with illustrations of the 
3Iass. 


No. 1, Neat cloth a variety of choice colors |0 -0 

2, Roan, embossed, gilt edge 0 4) 

3, “ full gilt edge and sides 0 50 

4, “ tucks, very neat 0 60 

6, Turkey, super extra 1 50 

6, “ tucks 1 60 

7, “ “ rims and clasp 2 60 

8, Calf, extra 1 75 

9, “ with clasp 2 ( 0 

10, “ rims and clasp 3 00 


The Hymn Book. 

Th^ Hymn-Book — 1801 h thousand — the most popular little Hymn Book 
ever published Contains, also, Pra'yei’S for the Mass, Prayers for Con- 
fession and Communion, and Serving of Mass. I2 cents each, or $9 per 
hundred ; cloth, 20 cents, or $1 80 jier dozen. 

The Gospels. 

For Sundays and Principal Festivals during the year, together with 
the Four Gospels of the Passion for Palm Sunday and Holy Week. 
1 vol. i2mo. Paper cover 10 cts , or per dozen, $L (.0. 

Confirmation and Communion Certificates. 

The subscriber has had prepared very beautiful certificates of Confir- 
mation and First Communiori. giving also exterior and interior views 
of the Cathedral of Philadelphia. These are the most beautiful certifi- 
cates ever published in this country, and are sold at low rates to the 
Reverend Clergy and others who buy in quantity. $3 00 per hundred. 

Angels’ Sodality. 

Manual of the Holy Angels' Sodality. Price, in cloth, flexible, $12 50 
per hundred, or $l 1 0 per dozen 

Diplomas jor Membership of the Angels^ Sodality. Beautiful design. 
$1 0.< per dozen 9 

Blessed Virgin’s Sodality Diploma. 

A Very Beautiful Diploma for Members of the Sodality of the Blessed 
Virgin Mary, size of plate I'jX.’O, has just been prej)ared by the under- 
signed Orders respectfully solicited. The name of the Church ^nd 
title of the Sodality inserted to ordrr. 

Catechisms. 


Butler s large and small Catechisms. The general Catechism of the 
National Council. Tuberviile s Catechism, Dr. Doyle’s Catechisms. 
Fleury s Catechism and The Catholic Christian Instructed Supplied 
Wholesale and Retail. And many other Catholic Doctrinal Works. 
Orders respectfully solicited. 

PETER P. CUNNINGHAM, 

1‘uDUshcr, 2.6 S. Third St., Philada. 



i 


'kidA - 

4 «- 


* 













q\ O 

<1 





V ./> • " <^y/ 

> V. ° 

.> ^ ^f{!//72^ ^ . .. 


o C-^ 

z 

vJ^ '"'j , f 

; v^ . 

,* x® °.*. ’ 

o '% %7;;.'V '6. %-'*^^* 

*■ -- \V - ^^J/K ° ^ k 

^ >- vN^’ ® ^f%i^ 2 <2^ ^ 

* Ci cy -A 

O ^ 0 „ )k < 

^ -y c ® « 

•f o 0 










^ ^ 0 o » • 3 N 0 

<r 'f>^ ' 



.0^ <" ‘ *, ■<;. 

X =\F'%|3i' ■f‘^ " 

^ ^ ^ ^ f^* ^ *** CL * ry- X 

A' ^ x-fc<OfiS:. ^ -O ^ ^ ^ 




= <a5 " 

<r 


✓' 

v> ^ ^ •> 

. ■^ . f?. 55 ^ 


.0* 3 S 0^ 

.0^,'' .nl'-V ■^. \ 


5/' oC^ 
^ \v 










'= 'Vc.^"^ J 



s'" (,0 c>, 

rv^ s ^ N 0 


. 0 N c ^ "^<0 ■'**'''* \^ «. V I B ^ 

> » 


V^ : 

r\ ^ * 


X V 

oo^ 



A eV - ^ ^ 

aO < . ^ A 

? ^ 0 N C . <p * a'" <. ' 

' A N 

I * 


ft ^ 

^ i) N O ^ 

, V 


' ° ■^s*- “■ 



'^- V. ^ <>• 

^ \.. '»_^^p ■''^'' '^■- ° 

, 0 ~ <■ <, ' '^ ■S' 



V ' ^ 

0 ^ 

* "'" S , °t- 

X - 


o. / 






